


Eye Contact

by Krysti1250



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A Study in Pink, Case Fic, Crime, Death, Deductions, Deductions Galore, Detective, Eventual Smut? IDK, F/M, Feedback please!, First real fanfic, Geniuses, Homeless Network, Hope you guys like, I haven't decided yet, M/M, Murder, POV Third Person, Please Don't Hate Me, Please read, Possessive Sherlock, Possible Character Death, Possible Wholock Eventually, Protective John, Social Anxiety, The Blind Banker, The Game Is Afoot, The Science of Deduction, The game is on
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-23
Updated: 2015-03-11
Packaged: 2018-01-20 13:36:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 22
Words: 51,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1512482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Krysti1250/pseuds/Krysti1250
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Margaret Archer is a newly homeless woman in the city of London, when she is saved off the streets by the sweet-mannered Mrs. Hudson. Just as Mrs. Hudson begins tending to the scared girl, the very Sherlock Holmes enters the woman's kitchen with his newly-established flatmate, John Watson. Sherlock notices something immediately about the small, frail woman sitting in his landlady's kitchen.<br/>She can't look anyone in the eye.<br/>Maggie has social anxiety. She cannot function in many social situations, and has a hard time meeting new people. Yet Sherlock sees something in her, and brings her along on a case for what he calls a 'test of her abilities.' If she's good enough, brilliant enough, he may just keep her around.<br/>---<br/>I'm kinda bad at summaries, but please read the story and give me some feedback. It's my first real fanfic, and I'd really like to know how I'm doing. Comments and kudos are extremely appreciated!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Dramatist

Maggie stepped out of the tube station and travelled along the London street, looking down at her feet so she wouldn’t have the worry of making eye contact with anyone. She was uncomfortable with eye contact. She trudged along, her hands shoved into her hand-me-down jacket, with patches on the shoulders and elbows. She twisted her fingers inside the pockets, shoving one through the hole in the left one before pulling it out again. She knew she shouldn’t do it, but she couldn’t help it.

She dodged person after person as she walked, being careful to avoid bumping or touching anyone. She shrunk further into her coat with each swerve of her movement. The coat was one of her last possessions, and she swore never to get rid of it. It wasn’t only that she knew she would need it, but also, in a way, sentiment. She had a connection to the object, and was reluctant to give it up.

She moved through a small crowd of teenagers before spying out of the corner of her eye a small coffee shop. She turned and entered through the doorway as another person exited, sliding by without touching the tall man. He turned and looked at her as she passed, but she paid him no mind. She slowly went to the counter and pulled a few quid.

“What can I do for you, dearie?” the small girl behind the counter asked, looking at her.

Maggie didn’t look up at her, just stared down at the glass panel before her.

“A small hot chocolate and a muffin please,” she said quietly, setting down the money and pushing it forward. The girl nodded, writing down the order on a small notepad and taking the money.

“No problem,” she said cheerily. “Oh, and your name?”

“Maggie,” she answered.

“Alright, well it’ll be just a moment.”

Maggie nodded, still not looking up. “Thank you.”

She moved away from the counter solemnly and sat in a lone booth in the corner of the small shop. She had just spent the last bit of money she had, and this was the first she’d eaten since breakfast the day before. After the fire last month, she had lost everything. The flat underneath her’s in Winchester had caught flame, and she had barely escaped in time to see the building collapse. Everything she had was in the home except the few things she had in her car. She wasn’t doing so well on money before the tragedy, and after selling her car and trying to find a new place to stay for two weeks, she was fired from her desk job. What little money she had soon ran out. She used the last that she had on a train ticket to London and the cocoa that arrived at her table.

As she sipped the beverage, she began to contemplate her next move. She knew she couldn’t pay for a place to stay, so her only option was to find work and stay on the streets until she had saved up enough to pay the first few months in a flat. She expected better options here than her old town, but she wasn’t completely sure where to go.

She was still thinking when she picked up her muffin to take a bite. A man entered the shop and spoke to the barista, and she nodded silently before going back to make his order. Maggie watched. The man had his back turned, so eye contact wasn’t possible. He didn’t move to go to another table, just stood there waiting. Which meant he wasn’t staying to enjoy his coffee, because he had somewhere to be. His long black coat, much longer than was needed, suggested that he was a bit of a dramatist, as did the way he swept it up as he entered the shop. He stood very straight, his hands shoved in his pockets and looking about the different pastries in the counter. As she watched, he called on the barista and asked for one of the baked goods, slipping a hand out of his pocket and pointing at it as he did. She noticed his long fingers and wondered if he played any instruments. Most likely something like piano or violin. He tapped his fingers on the top of the counter as he waited. Anxiety? No, more likely impatience. He had somewhere to be, and he wanted to get there.

She was too caught up in her observations to notice that he had turned his head and was looking at her, just slightly, from the corner of his eyes.

Her gaze slid down to his shoes, polished, clean, yet at the same time worn. He must like them, she thought. She looked up and noticed that his hand had stilled. He was still impatient, but now had something that was distracting him from that specific problem. She was pondering over what could have done so when she looked back up to his face and realized what it was.

Eye contact.

Her head dipped down and she focused intently on finished her muffin and hot cocoa. She shouldn't have looked for so long. She knew she shouldn't have looked for so long. People notice when you look at them. Then they look at you.

Sipping her cocoa as she stared at the table in front of her, she noticed when the man took his order and left, passing by her. He swept up his coat as he left, and Maggie smirked.  

Dramatist.

After the bell above the door ringed, signaling that he was gone, she looked up again and realized that he hadn't paid for his order. He hadn't taken out any money when he ordered in the first place, nor had he paid after the barista handed him the cup and pastry. The girl never said anything to him about it, either.

Maggie shrugged it off. Maybe he had some sort of tab or something. She shouldn't have even been concerned about it. She should be concerned about where she was staying tonight.

Finishing the muffin and the last of her hot chocolate, Maggie got up, gathering the wrapper and cup. She threw them away on her way out the door as the barista called a cheery, "Have a good afternoon!" after her. She didn't reply.

It had started raining since she entered the shop. Having no umbrella, she turned up the collar of her coat and moved along.

Staying on the street or in an alley wouldn't be a good option in this weather. She needed somewhere inside, where she could be warm. She continued walking as she had been earlier, head down. After turning a corner, she realized that she wasn’t likely to find any place inside to stay. She couldn’t go into a stranger’s home, businesses would never let her stay, and she didn’t know anyone in London. She had no place to go.

So, instead of holding out that hope, she began glancing into nearby alleyways, to see if one might offer some shelter from the rain. Maybe there was an awning over some back door or even a garbage dumpster that she could sleep near; it would at least block some of the water.

It took her four blocks to find something useable. Some sandwich shop that had a door in the back. There was a small but good area of coverage from the awning above it, and, after walking around to make sure the store was closed, she settled onto the step, curling her arms up underneath her head to form a small pillow. It wasn’t the most comfortable, but she did have much of any other choice.

Maggie fell asleep surprisingly quickly, the last thought in her mind the hope that no one would find her, and that she would wake up before the shop's owner came to open up for the morning.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Um, dear?” a voice said. “Dear?”

Maggie’s eyes slowly opened and she looked around. She saw feet nearby, a woman’s feet, and they were in orthopedic shoes. A pair of light brown trousers led up to a flowered blouse. Maggie knew from the woman’s appearance, even while avoiding looking at her face, that she was elderly.

“Are you okay dear?” the woman said. “You gave me an awful fright when I came to open up.”

Maggie’s eyes widened in shock, and she stared down at the woman’s feet as she sat up. She was caught.  “I-uh, I’m fine. Thank you.”

“What’s your name?”

“M-maggie.” she whispered. She was beginning to get uncomfortable. Talking for someone for a long period of time made her just as uncomfortable as looking someone in the eyes.

“Have a mad night or something?” the woman asked.

Maggie stood up and leaned back against the wall. Her stomach felt empty.

“U-uh…” Maggie stuttered. “I just… I’m sorry for falling asleep there. I’m okay.”

“You sure dear? You’re… swaying.”

Maggie realized just how intense her hunger was, after all that muffin from the night before was all she had eaten that day, and now it was early morning. Then she saw that the world had been spinning before her, and she stumbled as she tried to stand up straighter. She saw the pavement rising to meet her and threw her hands out to catch herself.

Of course, no one caught her. She didn’t expect anyone to, and why would she? The frail woman in front of her obviously couldn’t - she would probably hurt herself in the process - and no one else was around.

Her palms skid against the rough ground before her, but luckily protected her face from any harm.

“Oh! Oh my,” the woman said. She leaned down and grabbed ahold of Maggie’s arm, pulling rather hard in an effort to get her off the ground. “Come on, dear. You can come into my flat for a few minutes. The shop can wait.” The woman succeeded in hoisting Maggie up, and though she hated the physical contact, Maggie couldn’t keep herself from leaning on the small woman, though she walked as much as she could manage. As she was taken along out of the alley and around to the front, Maggie caught a few glimpses of the woman’s face. Some wrinkles, but not enough to suggest the woman was beyond the age of 60. Her hair was short, and though graying, still held onto the brown that the lightened color suggested it had been when she was younger. She had smile and laugh lines, and Maggie presumed she was an enjoyable person, with many friends… no, actually, a few friends, all of which she was happy with having.

She didn’t look directly at the woman’s eyes. Too dangerous.

The woman didn’t even let go of Maggie as she pulled out a key and stuck it into the lock. Shouldering the door open and pulling Maggie along with her, she called something up the stairs.

“Sherlock! Oh, bugger,” she muttered. “He should be here soon, at least.”

Maggie didn’t know why the woman was telling her this. After all, she had no idea who ‘Sherlock’ was, and she honestly didn’t care. She didn’t care about much at that moment, because her main focus was on _not_ passing out.

The woman dragged Maggie along and sat her at a table in her kitchen before rummaging around. She didn’t seem to know what she was looking for, since she didn’t really know what was wrong with the young girl who seemed half-dead in her kitchen.

Suddenly there was a knock at the door outside. The elderly woman rushed to answer it, leaving Maggie behind. Once alone, Maggie slumped forward, laying her head on the table. She shouldn’t have stayed outside the night before. Though she knew hunger was a large part of her condition right now, she also realized that it was likely she had gotten sick from sleeping in the damp and cold, and she felt as though she was going to vomit.

“Oh, Sherlock!” she heard the woman exclaim. “Come, I think you may be able to help me with… whatever this is…”

“What’s going on, Mrs. Hudson?” a rather deep voice asked.

“Well… you should just come and see. You’ll know what to do.”

“...Alright then.”

As he spoke these words, the body belonging to the deep voice stepped around the corner into the kitchen. Maggie looked up and saw worn and yet polished shoes, trousers that led up to a much longer than necessary dark coat, which he flipped up as he rounded the doorway. She didn’t have to look up any further, yet she found herself compelled to. As she forced herself to look upon his face, she saw the same eyes from yesterday, in the coffee shop.

The Dramatist, or rather, Sherlock, was standing before her, and once again, they made eye contact before she looked quickly away.

A blonde man, much shorter than the dark haired one in front of him, stood on his tiptoes to look over the taller man’s shoulder.

“Uh, sorry, what’s going on?” Blonde said.


	2. Broken Plate

Sherlock didn’t seem phased at all by the fact that he had met Maggie before, although she was very bothered by it. He simply walked up and grabbed her wrist, pressing two fingers to it as he checked her pulse, and then dropping it quickly when she cringed away. He then touched a bit of her hair, ignoring her reaction from thus on. She hated being touched, but she didn’t have the energy to do anything about it.

After observing her for a few moments, he stood straight and turned away, his hands clasped behind his back.

“Dr. Watson, what do you make of her?” he asked.

The short blonde man raised his eyebrows.

“What?” he asked.

“What do you think is wrong with her?”

Watson looked at the small woman who was leaning heavily on the table with her arm even as she was sitting.

“Uh, um. I don’t really know.”

“Well, you’re a doctor, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Then _diagnose_ her. That’s what you doctors do, right?”

The doctor just stared at the taller man.

Sherlock sighed. “Anytime now would do. But quickly.”

“Oh, um, right.”

The short man walked forward and pulled a chair over to sit near Maggie, who scooted slightly away.

“What’s your name?” he asked as he reached forward, taking her wrist just as Sherlock had.

“She told me it was, uh, Maggie, correct dear?” Mrs. Hudson asked. Maggie nodded once, keeping her head down.

“Alright, well Maggie, I’m gonna need you to look up for me.”

She didn’t want to. But the man was a doctor, right? Slowly, she forced herself to do it.

She looked up, but her eyes went anywhere but to his. She instead looked over his head, where she saw Sherlock moving about the kitchen behind Watson, opening cupboards and closing them, even opening Mrs. Hudson’s fridge and rummaging around. A toaster popped across the room and he hurried over to it, carrying a jar of some sort. The doctor turned at the sharp noise.

“What are you _doing_?” he asked.

Sherlock stared at him. “What? It’s early morning, time for breakfast. Continue on.”

The doctor looked confused, and looked to Mrs. Hudson, who shrugged. Watson sighed and turned back to Maggie.

“Well, she’s extremely pale,” Watson said.

“Yes, I gathered that,” said Sherlock. “Anything else?”

“Let’s see…” he touched her chin and moved her head, looking at each of her eyes, although she never looked back. “Not on any drugs, from what I can tell. No dilation.”

Right at that moment Maggie’s stomach let out a loud rumble.

The doctor let out a chuckle.

“I’d say it’s exhaustion from hunger. Got any food she could eat Mrs. -”

“My thoughts exactly,” Sherlock interrupted, walking around Watson and dropping a plate in front of Maggie. On it were two pieces of toast with - was that strawberry? - jam and a few apple slices on the side. Maggie stared at it and Sherlock watched her.

“Oh, right,” he said suddenly. “How could I forget?”

He turned and swept around the good doctor and back to the fridge. He pulled out a bottle and set it before her as well. Milk.

Maggie didn’t speak. She stared at the food for a few moments, reluctant to eat the food someone eshe didn’t know prepared for her. But her stomach grumbled once again and she reached forward and greedily bit into a piece of toast. The jam was delicious. She took another bite and then ate an apple slice.

As she continued, sipping from the milk occasionally, the other three in the room watched, and the conversation soon began.

“Where did you find her Mrs. Hudson?” Sherlock asked.

“She was sleeping, on the back steps of the sandwich shop in the alley.”

“Ah, so she _is_ homeless. This may be useful.”

John interrupted.

“Wait what? What’s going on? And how did you know she was hungry before her stomach made that noise? I’m a doctor and I didn’t know that.”

Sherlock ignored him.

“Mrs. Hudson, I’d like you to bring her up once she’s done with her breakfast. I have a proposition for her, and she needs it.”

With that, he walked briskly out of the room and made his way up the stairs. John still looked confused when he realized that the tall man had left.

“Oi! Sherlock, wait!”

John hurried out after him, not even bothering to push in his chair from the table. Mrs. Hudson watched as the doctor rushed up the stairs, sighing.

“Well, I guess Sherlock found someone for a flatshare. It’ll be good for him,” she said as she turned from the doorway and came to occupy the seat that John had vacated. “You okay dearie?”

Maggie, who had just finished her bit of food, nodded appreciatively.

“Do… do I have to go up there?” she asked quietly.

Mrs. Hudson chuckled. “Well I suppose you could slip out if you like, but I guarantee you that Sherlock’s watching the sidewalk from the window, and he can easily find you if you leave. Got people all round to watch others.” She paused. “It’s probably best you speak with him. Won’t be so bad.”

Maggie didn’t speak, but stood and traveled to the sink, taking her plate and bottle with her. Mrs. Hudson watched as she began to wash the dishes she had used.

“Dearie, you don’t need to do that. Just leave them there, I’ll get them later.”

“With all due respect ma’am, it’s my pleasure to do it for you. After all, I did eat off of them. I’ll make sure to get it clean.” Maggie focused on scrubbing the plate as she spoke.

“Well, I suppose it would help. I need to go speak to the boys anyway about renting the space anyway. I’ll come get you when we’re done.”

Maggie nodded and continued washing as Mrs. Hudson left.  She began to feel herself calming, and could think clearly.

What had she gotten herself into? She was just supposed to get a job and find a place to stay, alone. She wasn’t supposed to intrude on a woman’s home, eat her food, and end up with the obligation to speak with a man who had caught her staring at him in the coffee shop the night before. Good lord, what must he think of her? Staring at him one night and half-dead in the flat underneath his the next morning? Probably thought she was a stalker or something.

“Social anxiety is a curious thing, isn’t it?” a voice said behind her. She jumped with fright and ended up dropping the plate, where it shattered on the floor. She stared down at it.

Sherlock stepped forward. “It’s not terrible, but rather annoying, isn’t it?”

She was still looking at the plate.  Sherlock noticed. “Don’t worry about that. I’ll but Mrs. Hudson new ones.”

“What do you want?” she asked quietly, crouching to clean up the mess she’d made when he frightened her.

“I wouldn’t suggest picking that up, you’re likely to cut yourself.”

“I can handle myself, thank you,” she snapped, just as a shard tore against the flesh of her palm. “ _Shit_ ,” she whispered.

“Told you,” he said. He bent, grabbing a hand towel off the counter as he did. “Here.” He wrapped the towel around her bleeding hand and helped her up. “Allow me to get a broom. I’m sure Mrs. Hudson has one considering the amount of cleaning she does in my flat.”

As if on cue, Mrs. Hudson’s short footsteps could be heard coming quickly down the stairs.

“Sherlock?” she said, “I heard a noise - what in God’s name happened?!” sh suddenly exclaimed, seeing the woman holding a towel to her obviously bleeding hand.

“I broke your plate, Mrs. Hudson,” Maggie said, looking down at the pile of shards.

As Mrs. Hudson rushed forward to look at the wound, John also came down the stairs, slowed by his cane.

“Bloody hell!” he yelled. “What happened?”

“Everything is perfectly fine,” Sherlock said. “Our guest just had an accident with the plate.”

“Oh, don’t worry about this,” Mrs. Hudson assured the girl. “I can fix this easily. Say plenty of cuts worse than these back in Florida before my husband passed. Thank you again for that, Sherlock,” she said, smiling sweetly to him. He nodded politely back, while Maggie looked on, horrified. _Did this woman just suggest that -_

“I’ll just get those bandages,” Mrs. Hudson said, closing the towel back over the cut and rushing off through her flat.

“Be sure to bring them upstairs,” Sherlock called, putting a hand on Maggie’s shoulder and beginning to lead her toward the staircase. “And no,” he whispered to Maggie as they walked, “I did not kill her husband. I merely ensured his execution.”

 _Well doesn’t that just sound so relieving_ , she thought. _Dear God, what am I doing here?_

Once he had gotten her up the stairs, with John close behind, Sherlock made Maggie sit upon the couch and took a position sitting upon the coffee table across from her.

“Let me see,” he said. She held out her hand. “Hmm,” he said, after removing the cloth. “It’s nothing too serious, although it will likely bleed a lot. Won’t need stitches, however.”

“Uh, maybe I should take a look,” John said from behind him. “Doctor, after all.”

“Oh, right, of course,” Sherlock said, moving so John could take his place. He examined her wound as well and came to the same conclusion.

“Yeah, you just cut through the fleshy part, that’s why it’s bleeding so much. Some tight bandages and you’ll be good to go.”

Mrs. Hudson suddenly rushed into the room. “I’ve found my first aid kit,” she announced.

“Perfect!” said Sherlock. “Doctor Watson here was just about ready to get Margaret all fixed up.”

“Maggie,” Maggie corrected.

Sherlock ignored her, taking the kit from Mrs. Hudson and handing it to John. John cleaned out the wound before placing a fair amount of gauze over it and bandaging it tightly with a compression bandage.

“Should stop the bleeding,” he said. “You’re good to go.”

“Except,” Sherlock said, “We still need to talk.”

 


	3. What About Maggie?

“Oh, give her a minute or two Sherlock,” Mrs. Hudson said, shooing him away. The poor girl’s probably terrified. She’s shivering quite badly as well.” The older woman reached behind Maggie and pulled a blanket off the back of the couch draping it around her. “Let me get you some hot tea, she said, rushing downstairs. Sherlock sighed and flopped into a chair.

“So,” John said. “Maggie?”

Maggie looked up at him.

“Why are you on the streets?”

She closed her eyes and looked away. She didn’t want to tell some stranger about it. A few minutes passed in silence as John looked around the flat and both Sherlock and Maggie sat completely still, Sherlock staring at the woman and Maggie looking anywhere but to him.

“Here you go dear,” Mrs. Hudson said, coming back up and handing her the cuppa. “Better?” After Maggie nodded, she continued. “You could’ve gotten so sick out there last night.”

Sherlock was sitting in his chair, his fingers steepled as he watched the woman. She sat with her eyes closed, sipping her tea. She looked calm, as if sleeping while sitting perfectly straight.

But Sherlock saw further than that.

John looked between the two, then around the messy flat.

“Well, as I was saying before you went downstairs, I think this could be very nice,” he said. “Very nice indeed.”

Sherlock cleared his throat and stood, looking around as well. “Yes, my thoughts precisely. So I went straight ahead and moved in.”

He of course said this last sentence just as John said, “Soon as we get all this rubbish cleaned out,” and the two stared at each other for a moment.

“Oh,” John said quietly. “So this is all…”

Sherlock started toward the kitchen. “Well, obviously I can, um, straighten all this up,” he said, taking a stack of papers and tossing them into a box on the kitchen table.

“So, uh, is she okay?” John asked, gesturing toward Maggie.

Sherlock looked in her direction as he continued picking up things here and there. “Oh, yeah, she’ll be fine. Leave her alone for a bit, she’s busy.”

“Busy?” John smirked. “With what?

Sherlock ignored him and picked up a stack of unopened letters, taking them to the mantelpiece, where he stacked them before pulling out a multi-tool knife and stabbing it into them, and the wood, to secure them. Just then John noticed something on the other side of the mantlepiece.

“Um,” he said, lifting his cane to gesture, “That’s a skull.”

Sherlock looked to it and then back to Maggie, where he had previously been staring. “Friend of mine,” he said.

John opened his mouth to ask just why he had his _friend’s skull_ , but was interrupted by Mrs. Hudson rushing back in. Maggie’s eyes opened.

“Well, what do you think then, Doctor Watson?” she asked, rubbing her hands, “There’s another bedroom upstairs, if you’ll be needing two.”

John stared at her, rather shocked. “Of _course_ we’ll be needing two,” he said, looking to Sherlock as if asking what exactly he had told the woman. Sherlock’s face was emotionless as he turned back to pick up a few other papers, half-heartedly throwing them onto the desk.

“Oh, don’t worry,” the woman said. “There’s all sorts around here.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Mrs. Turner next door’s got married ones.”

Maggie smirked at this.

Mrs. Hudson walked into the kitchen and frowned. “Oh Sherlock, the mess you’ve made,” she said, looking at the man, who was now organizing some papers on the desk. He made only an annoyed sound in response as she began to tidy up the mess of lab equipment in the kitchen.

John moved around to an armchair and plumped up the cushion before falling heavily into it, looking off in Sherlock’s direction.

“Maggie,” Sherlock said. John looked over to see that Maggie’s eyes were now open, and she was staring at some of the dust motes in the air. Another thing to be cleaned.

“Yes?” she answered, not looking away.

“We should talk.”

She raised her eyebrows. “About?”

He never looked up from his work. Except now he seemed to be scanning the papers for information rather than organizing them. “Hmm… deduction?”

Her eyebrows knitted together, showing her confused state. “What are you talking about?”

John piped up. “He says he can identify a software designer by his tie and an airline pilot by his left thumb.”

Sherlock stared at him.

John looked away sheepishly. “I, uh, looked you up on the internet last night.”

“Find anything interesting?” Sherlock asked.

“Your blog. The Science of Deduction?”

“What did you think?”

John just gave him a look that said _you’ve got to be kidding me_.

Sherlock rounded the desk and sat in the armchair facing John’s. “Well, in regards to your earlier statement, I can do all that. And I can read your military career in your face and leg, and your brother’s drinking habits in your mobile phone.”

John raised his eyebrows. “How?”

Sherlock simply smiled and turned away, back to Maggie. “Sorry for that interruption, although it was… slightly relevant.”

Maggie nodded. “But,” she said, throwing off the blankets and getting up, where she wobbled due to her legs suddenly going numb from the quick change in position, “what are _you_ talking about?”

Sherlock smirked and steepled his fingers in front of his mouth. “Come - sit.”

She walked around the table and toward them, grabbing one of the chairs from the desk and pulling it over. She sat it in between the two chairs and plopped down. Sherlock looked at the triangular formation that had been created and smiled.

“I rather like that,” he said. “Definitely saving that for future use.”

John just raised an eyebrow, but didn’t speak.

“Now, Maggie,” Sherlock continued, “I think you understand me very clearly when I say ‘deduction.’”

Maggie just stared at him. Sherlock pursed his lips.

“Hmm… let’s see. How can I test you…”

Maggie opened her mouth to ask him just what in the _hell_ kind of ‘test’ he was talking about, but just then Mrs. Hudson entered from the kitchen with a newspaper.

“What about these suicides then, Sherlock? I thought that’d be right up your alley. Three all the same.”

Sherlock frowned and stood up, walking to the window. He opened the curtain and peered outside.

“Four,” he said. “There’s been a fourth. And there’s something different this time.”

Maggie stood as well and walked to the other window to see what Sherlock was looking at. Outside was a police car, the lights flashing in its roof. The door opened and someone got out, although Maggie didn’t recognize them. The person didn’t ring the bell, but did pause there for a moment before coming in. Did he… pick the lock? Yes, he must have. Maggie specifically remembered Mrs. Hudson locking the door after Sherlock left it unlocked when he came in.

“A fourth?” asked Mrs. Hudson, putting the paper on the small table next to John.

Maggie turned just in time to see the man who picked the lock come trotting up the stairs, breathing just slightly harder than he should have been for such a short run. Unless his heart was racing for a different reason.

“Where?” Sherlock asked the man.

“Brixton, Lauriston Gardens.”

Sherlock never moved from his position by the window, and Maggie looked between the two men. Obviously the man who had come in was a cop, most likely a Detective Inspector. But why was he talking to Sherlock about an apparent suicide?

“What’s new about this one?” Sherlock asked. “You wouldn’t have come to get me if there wasn’t something different.”

“You know how they never leave notes?”

“Yeah.”

“This one did. Will you come?”

“Who’s on forensics?”

“Anderson.”

Sherlock grimaced. “Anderson won’t work with me.”

“Well, he won’t be your assistant.”

“I _need_ an assistant.”

“Will you come?”

Sherlock sighed. “Not in a police car. I’ll be right around.”

The man nodded. “Thank you.” He looked to Mrs. Hudson and John and nodded quickly to each of them in turn before looking to Maggie, where his face contorted to a confused expression for a moment before he shook his head and turned, trotting back down the way he came. Maggie watched out the window as he re-picked the lock, but this time locking it, before getting in the car and driving off. She looked up just in time to see Sherlock jump once into the air, clenching his fists in excitement before he twirled happily around the room.

“Brilliant!” he exclaimed. “Four serial suicides and now a note! Oh, it’s Christmas!”

Maggie mouth twitched into a smile. He was such a child. A possibly murder-obsessed child.  He ran over and grabbed his long coat and scarf, throwing them on as he entered the kitchen.

“Mrs Hudson, I’ll be late. Might need some food,” he said.

She scowled. “I’m your landlady, dear, not your housekeeper.”

He continued on as if he never heard her. “Something cold will do. John, have a cup of tea, make yourself at home, Maggie stay put, I’ll talk to you when I get back.  Don’t wait up!” he yelled as he grabbed a leather pouch off the table and rushed out the door.

Mrs. Hudson chuckled. “Look at him, dashing about!” she said to John. She pat his shoulder. “My husband was just the same.” Maggie chuckled. Mrs. Hudson was once again insinuating that Sherlock and John were a couple.

“But you’re the more sitting-down type, I can tell,” she continued. Maggie noticed that John looked uncomfortable and smirked again. It was amusing.

Maggie moved around and sat in Sherlock’s chair, sighing. John smiled at her kindly before looking down, tapping his knee. Mrs. Hudson turned toward the kitchen.

“I’ll make you two a cuppa. John, you just rest your leg and - ”

“ _Damn my leg_!” John shouted suddenly, making Mrs. Hudson jump and Maggie stand up quickly. He looked at the both of them and almost immediately began to apologize. “Sorry, sorry,” he said. “I’m so sorry. It’s just, sometimes this bloody thing…” he trailed off, tapping his leg with his cane.

Mrs. Hudson nodded. “I understand, dear; I’ve got a hip.”

“But, uh, cup of tea’d be lovely, thank you,” he said quietly, staring at his leg. Maggie slowly sat back down as Mrs. Hudson answered.

“Just this once, dear, I’m not your housekeeper.”

“Couple of biscuits too, if you’ve got them.”

“Not your housekeeper!” she yelled as she headed out the kitchen door and down the stairs to get the tea and biscuits. There was a moment of silence and John picked up the paper Mrs. Hudson had left behind.

“You don’t talk much, do you?” John said. Maggie stared off toward the fireplace, shaking her head. John sighed and looked at the paper. After a moment, he spoke quietly. “That man just now, he was a detective inspector,” he murmured. Maggie nodded. “You knew that?” he asked. “Have you met him before?” She shook her head.

John opened his mouth to say something else but was interrupted by Sherlock, who had apparently _not_ left, and had entered when neither of them was looking. Although Maggie had heard his footsteps, no matter how he had tried to quiet them for suspense.

“You’re a doctor. In fact, you’re an Army doctor.”

John looked up at him in surprise. “Yes,” he said, standing as Sherlock took a few more steps into the room.

“Any good?”

John huffed at him. “ _Very_ good.”

Maggie had since stood and was inspecting different areas of the flat. She picked up the skull off the mantelpiece and turned it over a few times in her hands, tapping the top of it where she saw a small crack. Whoever this skull belonged to had died of blunt force trauma. She looked up to see Sherlock looking her direction disapprovingly. She quickly replaced the skull from where she had gotten it, and Sherlock continued his conversation with John.

“Seen a lot of injuries, then; violent deaths.”

John pursed his lips and scrunched his eyebrows together. “Mmm, yes.”

Now Maggie was looking through some of the papers that were scattered around on the desk. Sherlock hurried over. “Bit of trouble too, I bet,” he said in John’s direction, taking the papers from her and putting them back on the table. “Classified,” he whispered to her, shoving them under some other documents.

She smirked. “Then maybe you should hide them better.”

John, who had been standing across the room open-mouthed, finally answered Sherlock’s statement. “Of course, yes. Enough for a lifetime. Far too much.”

Sherlock turned from Maggie, who again began looking through other papers, and walked over to John, leaning close and smiling with a devilish grin.

“Wanna see some more?”

John stared at him, shoulders slumping as if with relief. “Oh, _God_ , yes.”

Sherlock smiled even wider, although that didn’t seem possible, and spun on his heel, sweeping out of the room. “Mrs. Hudson!” John called. “Sorry, but I’ll skip the tea. Off out.”

Mrs. Hudson poked her head out of her doorway downstairs as John started down, pulling on his coat. “Both of you? What about Maggie?”

“Oh, she’s coming as well,” Sherlock answered. He looked up and saw Maggie standing at the top of the stairs, tying her jacket shut. “I need to test her.” He looked in Mrs. Hudson’s direction and walked to her, taking her by the shoulders. “Impossible suicides? Four of them? There’s no point sitting at home when there’s finally something _fun_ going on!” he exclaimed, leaning in and giving her a noisy kiss on the cheek.

Mrs. Hudson shook her head. “Look at you, all happy. It’s not decent.” But she couldn’t help smiling as he turned from her and walked toward the door.

“Who cares about decent?” he said loudly. “The game, Mrs. Hudson, is on.”

As he hurried out the door, Maggie wondered just what in the world she was getting herself into.


	4. The Consulting Detective

After Sherlock hailed a taxi, Maggie and John had to rush out of the flat to keep Sherlock from leaving without them. Although Maggie doubted he would have, she wasn’t going to leave it up to chance.  The taxi was silent for a few minutes as Maggie sat across from the two men and Sherlock kept his eyes locked on his smartphone. Soon after, however, he seemed to finish whatever he was doing and lowered the phone, sliding it into the pocket of his greatcoat.

“Okay,” he murmured. “You’ve got questions.”

John and Maggie both nodded. Sherlock pointed to John. “You first.”

“Where are we going?”

“A crime scene. Next?” he asked, now to Maggie.

“Umm…” she said, looking down so her hair hid some of her face. “I guess, what do you do? And why am I being ‘tested?’”

Sherlock clicked his tongue. “What do you two think I do?”

Neither answered immediately, but John spoke up hesitantly a few moments later. “I’d say private detective…” he trailed off.

“But?” Sherlock asked.

“But the police don’t go to private detectives,” Maggie answered.

Sherlock sighed. “I’m a  _consulting_ detective. Only one in the world. I invented the job.”

“What does that mean?” John asked.

“It means that when the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult me.”

John stared at him for a moment. “The police don’t consult amateurs.”

Sherlock threw John a slightly venomous look. Maggie raised an eyebrow. So he was prideful as well as dramatic.

“When I met you for the first time yesterday, I said, “Afghanistan or Iraq?” You looked surprised.”

John turned slightly in his seat to look at Sherlock. “Yes, how  _did_ you know that?”

“I didn’t know, I saw. Maggie did as well.”

Maggie looked up ever so slightly. “Hmm?”

Sherlock looked at her. “You could tell he was an Army man, couldn’t you? You saw it, right?”

John looked at her in surprise. Slowly, she nodded.

“What, is there a sign on me or something?” he asked.

She shook her head. “It’s.. your haircut, and the way you hold yourself - your posture. It says military.”

Sherlock nodded. “Of course you saw that.” He turned back to John. “And I knew you were a doctor because of your conversation as you entered the room. Do you remember what you said?”

John shook his head.

Sherlock frowned. “Well, that’s no good. You really should try to remember what you say to different people. It may be very helpful in the future, since you never know whether -”

“Sherlock,” John interrupted, “what did I say?”

Sherlock sighed. “”Bit different from my day”, is what you said, as you looked at all the equipment. You were trained at Bart’s, so not just in the Army but an Army  _doctor_ \- obvious. Anything you’d like to add, Margaret?”

She scowled, although he probably couldn’t see it through the curtain of her hair. “Maggie, please,” she said with annoyance. “But there’s also the factor of your tan.”

John looked confused. “My  _tan_?”

Sherlock nodded. “So you caught that too. Your face is tanned, John, but no tan above your wrists.”

Maggie nodded. “I noticed it when you held my hand earlier. You’ve been abroad, but not sunbathing.”

Sherlock continued. “Your limp is rather bad when you walk, but you don’t ask for a chair while standing, like you’ve forgotten about it.”

Maggie nodded. “So I’m guessing psychosomatic.”

Sherlock tilted his head, biting his lip. “Well, at least partly. That says the original circumstances of the injury were traumatic. Wounded in action, then.”

“Wounded in action, suntan,” Maggie murmured. “So…”

“Afghanistan or Iraq,” Sherlock finished, emphasizing the  _k_ sound at the end of the word.

John stared at him. “But you also said I have a therapist.”

Maggie chuckled. “You’ve got a psychosomatic limp, of course you have a therapist.”

Sherlock smiled at her before turning back to John, his face once again serious. “Then there’s your brother.”

John’s eyebrows scrunched together. “My brother?”

Sherlock held his hand out. “Your phone.” John handed it to him and Sherlock began turning it in his hands, examining it. “It’s expensive, e-mail enabled, MP3 player,” he rattled off.

“But wait,” Maggie said. She was actually finding herself to  _enjoy_ this conversation, something that rarely, if ever, happened. “You two have a flatshare. How could you afford that, John?” she asked, pointing to the phone in Sherlock’s hand.

John opened his mouth to answer, but Sherlock cut him off. “Yes, I was  _getting_ to that,” he said. “You’re looking for a flatshare,” he practically repeated Maggie’s words, “You wouldn’t waste money on this. It’s a gift, then.” He turned the phone over, examining the scratches in the screen and back plate. “Scratches,” he said. “Not one, but many, over time. It’s been in the same pocket as keys, coins. The man sitting next to me wouldn’t treat his one luxury item like this, so it’s had a previous owner. Next bit’s easy. You know it already.”

A look of understanding came across John’s face. “The engraving,” he said.

Sherlock turned the phone over, and Maggie caught sight of the engraving in question.

_Harry Watson_

_From Clara_

_xxx_

Sherlock smirked as he read it again. “Harry Watson: clearly a family member who’s given you his old phone, but not your father, this is a young man’s gadget. Could be a cousin, but you’re a war hero who can’t find a place to stay, so it’s unlikely you’ve got an extended family, certainly not one you’re close to, so, brother it is. Now _Clara_. Who’s Clara? What do you think, Maggie?” he asked, not bothering in showing her the phone.

She scrunched her eyebrows together. “Well, three kisses says it’s a romantic attachment. But the expense of the phone says wife, not girlfriend.”

Sherlock nodded. “She must have given it to him recently - this model’s only six months old. Marriage in trouble then - six months on he’s just given it away. If she’d left  _him_ , he’d have kept it. People do - sentiment. But no, he wanted rid of it.”

“He left  _her_ ,” Maggie cut in.

“He gave the phone to _you_ ,” Sherlock continued, as if she hadn’t spoken. “That says he wants you to keep in touch. You’re looking for cheap accommodation, but you’re not going to your brother for help - that says you’ve got problems with him. Maybe you liked his wife -”

“Maybe you _don't_ like his drinking,” Maggie finished.

John looked between them both. “How can you  _possibly_ know about the drinking?”

Sherlock smirked. “Shot in the dark. But a good one. The power connection,” he says, flipping over the phone to show John. “Tiny scuff marks around the edge of it.”

“Every night he goes to plug it in to charge but his hands are shaking,” Maggie murmured.

“You never see those marks on a sober man’s phone; never see a drunk’s without them,” Sherlock said, handing the phone back to John. “And you,” he said, pointing to Maggie, “So far your test is going brilliantly. You’re attention to detail is quite impressive.”

“That was… amazing,” John said quietly, holding the phone.

“You were right, John,” Maggie said.

John’s eyebrows shot up and he looked at her. “ _I_ was right? Right about what?”

She smirked and looked up at the ceiling of the cab. “The police don’t consult amateurs.”

Sherlock was staring at John. “You really think that was amazing?”

John looked at him. “Of  _course_ it was. That was extraordinary.”

“That’s not what people normally say.”

“What do they normally say?” Maggie asked.

Sherlock looked out the window. “‘ _Piss off_.’” he said, turning back to the two and grinning. John grinned as well and looked out the window, and Maggie couldn’t even help the infectious smile on her lips.

“So, now to you, Margaret.”

She groaned. “It’s _Maggie_.”

He chuckled. “Sorry, I guess I’m just so used to my brother. He’s absolutely appalled by nicknames.”

Maggie frowned. “Well, sorry to disappoint, but I’m not your brother.”

He frowned. “Well, that’s fairly obvious considering your  _gender_ ,” he said. John smirked.

Maggie sighed. “Anyway, what about me?”

“Well,” he said, “considering your behaviour, and your obvious avoidance to most conversation, eye contact, etcetera, I’d say you have some sort of social anxiety disorder that has lessened through the ears but still affects you somewhat. Going from what I know on the subject, I’d say it was caused by a traumatic experience in school.”

Maggie looked away, unconsciously rubbing at her arms.

“You were bullied, correct?” Slowly, she nodded. “What happened?”

She stared out the window, as she often did. “I was picked on throughout school, but in Secondary School I made some friends. But it was only a joke to them, until I trusted them.  Then they jumped me in the parking lot, beat me to a pulp.”

John stared, wide eyed at her. “ _Why_?”

“I don’t know,” she said quietly, pulling at the fabric of her sleeves.

“They left you there,” Sherlock said quietly. She nodded again. He gritted his teeth. “And since then?”

“I’ve had social anxiety. People hurt you when you get close to them, so I choose not to.”

“And how long have you been self-harming?”

She gave him a shocked look. “H-how -”

“You’re pulling at your sleeves, trying to hide the scars.”

She looked down. So she was.

“How long?” he asked.

“I started three years ago.”

“Is that when it happened?”

“What?”

“When someone close to you died?”

She froze.

“There was nothing to tell you that -”

“Another shot in the dark, like the drinking, but I was right. Who was it?”

“My dad,” she whispered. “The only family I had left.”

“No siblings?”

“My mom died when my brother and I were young, and he ran off soon after. He was older than me. We never heard from him after that. I’m pretty sure he’s dead.”

“No you’re not.”

She gave a sad smile. “Knew I couldn’t get that by you.”

“Where is he?”

“Now  _that_ I don’t know.”

Sherlock nodded. “Right. Well, going by the amount of dirt on your clothing and the state of your hair, I’d say you haven’t been on the street long. What caused you to go to the street anyway?”

“Fire in the flat below mine that spread up. Lost everything I had,” she said. Good God, she was telling this man _everything_. She was usually more careful than this. Why did she feel so comfortable giving everything away to him? Surely she didn’t  _trust_ him.

“So, after a fire destroying your flat, I’d guess you spent a few more weeks there before coming to London, likely in search of work, although I’m sorry to inform you that you won’t find much here either. You arrived from your home in Winchester yesterday, and happened upon the doorstep of the sandwich shop right next door from me. How convenient,” he mused.

Maggie looked up. "How did you know I came from Winchester?"

The man smirked. "Your train ticket fell out of the hole in your left pocket as you left the cafè yesterday," he said, holding up the ticket in question. “You should really get that fixed up.”

She scowled and snatched it from him, shoving it this time into her right pocket as she turned to stare out the window at the passing lights.

"Why were you following me?" she asked.

John stared at them. "Wait, you two have met?"

Maggie shook her head. "It's more like we passed one another in a coffeehouse yesterday.  Although he apparently _stalked_ me afterward."

Sherlock clicked his tongue. "No, no, I merely followed you a few blocks until I could tell the general area in which you were going to be. I was going to find you later today, but Mrs. Hudson saved me the trouble."

"Why were you going to find me?"

"Because I had already deduced all of this - well, other than the social anxiety, although I did have a feeling - in that shop, and I thought you could be useful. Now that I know some of your abilities, I think so even more. But there's still one final test I have for you, Maggie," he said as the taxi pulled to a stop and he dashed out. She quickly followed after him.

"Oh, I'll just pay the cabbie, then," John yelled after them sarcastically, reaching for his wallet.

Maggie barely caught up with Sherlock’s long strides as they turned a corner and came across cars with flashing red and blue lights and police tape. She suddenly grabbed his elbow, stopping him.

"You said I would be useful," she whispered. " _What for_?"

He gave her a half smile, leaning close to her ear. "Pass this next test, and you'll find out," he said, leaning away as John caught up with them. With that, he turned and started leading the way towards the crime scene.

"John," he said as he walked, "did I get anything wrong? In my earlier deduction?"

John shook his head. "Harry and me don't get on, never have. Clara and Harry split up three months ago, and they're getting a divorce - and Harry _is_ a drinker."

Sherlock looked rather impressed with himself. "Spot on, then," he said. "I didn't expect to be right about everything."

Maggie frowned and rolled her eyes. _Yes, you did_ , she thought to herself.

"And Harry is short for Harriet."

Sherlock and Maggie stopped dead in their tracks.

“Harry is your _sister_?” Maggie asked.

John nodded. “Yeah, she never liked Harriet, and she had us call her Harry instead.”

Maggie frowned. She thought she and Sherlock had been right, and no matter how much she didn’t want to feed the man’s obvious pride, she had hoped they’d been right.

John looked from Sherlock, to the crime tape, to Maggie, and back to Sherlock. "Look, what are Maggie and I supposed to be doing here?"

Sherlock gritted his teeth. "Sister!" he said in frustration.

Maggie looked at the female officer standing near a police car, forgetting about Harry for now. "No, seriously, _what are we doing here_?"

Sherlock ignored them, suddenly deciding to continue on toward the crime scene, muttering to himself.

"It's always _something_!" he grumbled, clenching his fists.


	5. Pink

John and Maggie gave up on getting Sherlock to answer their questions, and followed him. As the group approached the police tape, the female officer that Maggie had noticed earlier ducked under the tape and stood in their path on the other side, her arms crossed defiantly over her chest.  She didn’t seem particularly pleased by the sight of Sherlock, going by her glare that remained fixed on him. The officer didn’t speak until they were almost to the tape.

“Hello, _freak_ ,” she said, her voice taking an aggressive tone.

Maggie was appalled by the woman’s behavior. This was an _officer_. She should have been respectful of citizens. She expected Sherlock to do something, but he didn’t even react.

“I’m here to see Detective Inspector Lestrade,” he said flatly.

The woman shifted her weight from one leg to the other. “Why?” she asked, clearly annoyed.

“I was invited.”

She sneered. “ _Why_?” she asked indignantly.

Sherlock gave her a blank stare. “I think he wants me to take a look,” he said, rather sarcastic. John smirked and Maggie suppressed a giggle.

She frowned. “Well, you know what I think, don’t you?” she said.

Sherlock sighed as he ducked under the tape. “Always, Sally,” he said. He took a deep breath through his nose. “I even know you didn’t make it home last night.”

Her sneer faltered. “I don’t…” she trailed off, and just seemed to notice John and Maggie standing there. “Er, who’s this?”

“Colleagues of mine,” he said, gesturing to John. “Doctor Watson, Maggie, Sergeant Sally Donovan. _Old friend_ ,” he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

“Colleagues?” she said, clearly surprised. “How did _you_ get colleagues?” She turned toward them. “What did he f _ollow you home_?”

“No,” John answered, while Maggie muttered something along the lines of “He apparently _tried_ to…”

John looked to Sherlock. “Would it be better if we just waited and -”

“No,” Sherlock answered shortly, lifting the tape.

As the pair ducked under the tape, Sergeant Donovan lifted her radio to her mouth.

“Freak’s here,” she said. “Bringing him in.”

She began leading the group toward the home, where apparently the crime had happened, while Sherlock looked all around the area. As they reached the sidewalk, a man in a blue coverall approached them from the steps of the home.

Sherlock grimaced. “Ah, Anderson, here we are again.”

The man looked at Sherlock with obvious distaste while Maggie looked him over. So this was the ‘Anderson’ that Sherlock couldn’t work with? He didn’t seem that bad.

“It’s a crime scene, and I don’t want it contaminated,” Anderson said. “Are we clear on that?”

_Oh_ , Maggie thought. _Now I get it_. This guy was territorial. He didn’t like Sherlock being on ' _his'_ crime scene, most likely because he knew Sherlock was smarter than him, and, quite frankly, was intimidated by the fact. This confrontation was just him trying to set up the idea that he was in charge of the area.

Sherlock took another breath from his nose. “We are… quite clear. And is your wife away for long?”

Anderson looked insulted. “Oh, don’t pretend you worked that out. Someone told you that.”

“You’re deodorant told me that,” Sherlock answered.

The shorter man looked confused. “My _deodorant_?”

Sherlock smirked. “It’s for men,” he said.

“Of _course_ it’s for men. _I’m_ wearing it!”

“So’s Sergeant Donovan,” Maggie said the obvious before Sherlock could.

Anderson turned around, a look of shock on his face as he stared at Donovan, who stared right back. Sherlock took another sniff.

“Oh,” he said quietly, “I think it just vaporised. May I go in?”

Anderson turned back, a look of fury on his face. “Now look,” he said, “whatever you’re trying to imply -”

“I’m not implying _anything_ ,” Sherlock cut him off as he shoved past him, heading up the sidewalk and toward the front door. “I’m sure Sally came round for a nice little chat, and just happened to stay over.” He turned back, pointing up and down Donovan. “And I assume she scrubbed your floors, going by the the state of her knees,” he said quite loudly, causing a few officers to look at the scene before them. Anderson and Donovan stared at him in absolute horror as he hurried up the steps of the house. Maggie and John passed the two, Maggie continuing as if nothing had happened, although John briefly and pointedly looked down at Sally’s knees as he went by.

They entered the home to find the detective inspector from the flat standing off to the side, talking with some other officers and beginning to put on a blue coverall that was almost identical to the one Anderson was wearing outside. Sherlock pointed to the pile of coveralls on the table while looking to John.

“You need to wear one of those,” he said.

“What about me?” Maggie asked.

Lestrade noticed the group as she spoke. “Who’re these people?” he asked.

Sherlock began taking off his black gloves. “He’s with me. Her too.”

Lestrade’s eyebrows furrowed. “But who _are_ they?”

“I _said_ they’re with me.”

John had taken off his jacket and picked up one of the coveralls when he noticed that Maggie and Sherlock weren’t putting one on. He looked at Sherlock.

“Aren’t you guys gonna put one on?” he asked, referring to the coverall.

Sherlock looked at him sternly. John shook his head as he went back to the coverall. Maggie reached forward to grab one herself when Sherlock grabbed her wrist, stopping her.

“Don’t,” he ordered.

Maggie nodded slowly, putting her hand down.

Sherlock looked to Lestrade. “So where are we?”

Lestrade picked up another pair of latex gloves and handed them to Maggie, who took them appreciatively. “Upstairs,” he said, jerking his head in the direction of the staircase. He led them up the circular staircase as Maggie worked on getting the gloves on, which were rather large for her smaller hands. After reaching the top he began to open a door, but stopped, blocking Sherlock from entering.

“Look, I can give you two minutes,” he said.

Sherlock opened the door around him and went into the room, saying over his shoulder, “May need longer.”

Lestrade sighed. “He name’s Jennifer Wilson according to her credit cards. We’re running them for contact details. She hasn’t been here long. Some kids found her,” he said.

Maggie looked around the room. It was empty of furniture, other than a child’s rocking horse in the far corner. There were large emergency lights set up, and Maggie assumed the building didn’t have electricity. There were also scaffolding poles in another area, holding up part of the ceiling near an area of wall that had large chunks missing. Some kids had probably knocked holes in the wall for fun. And then there was the body, the only other thing in the room.  She was lying facedown in the middle of the wooden floor, with her hands lying flat on the floor on either side of her head. She was pink. Maggie grimaced at the vibrancy of the color. It was far too bright, and she was wearing far too much of it. She had on an overcoat and high heels, and Maggie assumed she was also wearing a shirt and pencil skirt of the same color underneath.

Sherlock took a few steps toward her and stopped, holding a hand in his line of sight as he looked at the corpse so he could focus on it. Maggie looked to John and saw that he was looking at the dead woman with an expression of sadness. Lestrade had his eyes fixed on Sherlock.

After a few moments of silence, Sherlock looked up sharply at Lestrade. “Shut up,” he ordered.

Lestrade’s mouth dropped open, and he stared at Sherlock. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You were thinking,” Sherlock said. “It’s annoying.”

Lestrade and John exchanged a look as Sherlock looked back to the corpse. He stared at the area next to her hand for a bit, where she had scratched the letters R-A-C-H-E. Shaking his head dismissively once, he kneeled next to the woman. He ran his gloved fingers along the back of her hideous coat and looked at his fingers, then reached into the pocket of the coat and pulling out a white umbrella. Maggie was surprised it wasn’t pink. He checked it for a moment before putting it back. He then ran his fingers under the collar of the coat and looked at them. He reached into his coat and pulled out a small magnifier and began to examine different things, although Maggie couldn’t tell exactly what. He stopped near her hand and blinked a few times. He took a ring off of her finger and looked at it for a few moments before putting it back and lifting his hands away from her and standing.

“Got anything?” Lestrade asked.

Sherlock was smiling in satisfaction as he put the magnifier back into his coat and pulled out his phone, beginning to text. “Not much.”

Maggie stood watching him when another voice sounded by the door.

“She’s German,” Anderson said, who was standing in the doorway. Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him over his phone. Anderson pointed to the floor next to the woman’s left hand. “‘ _Rache_ ,’” he said. “It’s German for revenge. She could be trying to tell us something-”

Sherlock walked over and shut the door in the other man’s face. “Yes, thank you for your input,” he said sarcastically.

“So she’s German?” Lestrade asked.

“Of course not,” Sherlock answered. “She _is_ from out of town, though. Intended to stay in London for one night…” he paused before smiling at his phone, putting it back into his pocket, “before returning home to Cardiff. So far, so obvious.”

John stared at him. “Sorry - obvious?”

“What about the message, though?” Lestrade asked.

Sherlock ignored him. “What do you think, Maggie?”

Maggie looked to the body. “Of the message?”

He shook his head. “Of the scene. I want to know what you think of the victim, who she is.”

Lestrade cut in. “Wait, no, I let _you_ in here for this. Not her.”

Sherlock gave him a look. “I need to test her for something. Don’t worry, she’s meticulous. She knows not to contaminate anything - she’s wearing gloves.”

Lestrade looked at him. “I’m already breaking enough rules. I can’t let a teenager -”

“I’m twenty-three.”

Lestrade looked at her. “Still-”

“It’s either let her take a look or lose what information I can give you.”

Lestrade had a small stare down with the taller man before sighing. “Fine.”

Sherlock smirked and gestured for Maggie to go to the corpse. As much as she was disgusted by the idea of touching a dead woman, she was also intrigued.

She took a few steps forward and leaned down near the woman’s legs, examining her calves before she moved up, looking at the message scratched into the floorboards.. R-A-C-H-E. She stared at them for a moment. While Anderson was right, and ‘rache’ did mean revenge in German, it was highly unlikely that the woman was writing that in her last moments. She thought through it, and decided that the woman must've died before she could finish the message. All the letters of the alphabet ran through her mind before she settled on what it must have been . L. Rachel. She wondered for a moment who Rachel was, before shaking her head. That couldn’t be helped now, and there was no use dwelling on it when she had no way to make even an educated guess. So she focused instead on the woman’s left hand, or more importantly, her fingernails. They were painted the same horrendous pink as her outfit, and paint on the index and middle finger nails were chipped and peeling. The pads of those fingers were scratched as well. So she had scratched the letters with those fingers, and she was left handed. While looking at the hand, she saw the woman’s wedding ring. Her eyes flicked to the other jewelry the woman was wearing. Her earrings, her necklace and bracelet, and all the other rings were polished, cleaned regularly. But the wedding ring… it was dirty. She gauged the age of the ring, and going by how dirty it was, and how long the evidence suggested it had been since it was cleaned, she guessed the woman was unhappily married for at least ten years. At the most, fifteen. She readjusted the gloves on her hands and reached down, struggling just a bit to take the ring from the woman’s finger. She turned it in her hands, looking at the inside and the out. The inside was smooth and clean while the outside was tarnished. Maggie frowned a bit while she slid it back onto the woman’s ring finger. The ring was obviously removed often. But going by the woman’s perfect nails, it wasn’t for work. So, why take it off at all? Maggie sighed at the obvious. The woman was an adulterer. A serial adulterer, at that. Turning from her hand, Maggie ran her hand along the woman’s coat and looked at it. The coat was wet. So was the woman’s hair. Maggie remembered Sherlock pulling the umbrella out. Reaching under the woman, she pulled the white umbrella from the coat’s pocket, genuinely surprised that it wasn’t pink as well. She touched the folds. Dry. But if it was raining and the woman had an umbrella, why would she not use it? She matched every part of her clothing to the same color. There was no way she would let her hair be ruined when she had another option. Maggie thought for just a second before realizing it. An umbrella is useless in strong winds. Tucking the umbrella back into the pocket, she placed her fingers under the fold of the coat’s collar. Wet. The woman couldn’t use her umbrella, so she pulled up her collar against the wind, at least. Maggie looked up and down the body once more before being satisfied that she had noticed everything.

When she stood, Sherlock rushed to her.

“Well? What’ve you got?”

She smiled, staring down at the corpse. “Not much,” she said sarcastically.

 


	6. Psychopath

Sherlock smirked at the small girl. “Doctor Watson, your turn. What do you think?”

John raised his eyebrows. “Of?”

“Of the body. You’re a medical man. What’s the cause of death?”

Lestrade stared at him. “We have a whole team out there, Sherlock. No.”

Sherlock’s gaze snapped to the detective. “They won’t work with me.”

“I’m breaking every rule letting _you_ in here. Even more for letting _her_ examine the body,” he said, nodding toward Maggie.

Sherlock gave the man a knowing look. “Yes, because you need me.”

There was a short amount of time that was spent with the two detectives staring at one another before Lestrade gave up, looking down as if disappointed in himself.

“Yes, I do,” he said. “God help me.”

“Doctor Watson,” Sherlock said.

“Hm?” John answered, who had been staring intently at the body. Sherlock gave him a look and John turned to Lestrade, silently asking permission.

Lestrade shrugged, obviously a little annoyed at Sherlock’s insistence for everyone but the actual medical team to look at the body. “Oh, do as he says. Help yourself.” He turned, walking out the door and closing it. Through the wood Maggie could hear him speaking. “Anderson, keep everyone out for a couple of minutes.”

Maggie stood in the corner by the scaffolding poles while Sherlock squatted on the woman’s left side and John went to the right, lowering himself down with a look of pain on his face while he leaned quite heavily on his cane.

“Sherlock,” John murmured.

“Well?”

“What am I doing here?”

“Helping me prove a point,” Sherlock answered, not looking up from the corpse in front of him.

“I’m supposed to be helping you pay the rent,” John answered.

“Yeah, well, this is more fun.” He pulled out his magnifier and began examining the body all over again.

“Fun?” John asked. “There’s a woman lying dead.”

Sherlock looked up at him. “That’s a perfectly sound analysis, but I _was_ hoping you’d go deeper.”

“And Maggie, what are you doing bringing some young homeless girl with us?”

“Testing her.”

“ _For what_?” John whispered angrily. “Are you incapable of giving straight answers?”

Just then Lestrade entered the room again and Sherlock gave John a look that said _get on with it_. John sighed deeply and dragged down his other leg to kneel by the body. He leaned forward a bit to look at her more closely and put his face near hers, sniffing a bit. He then straightened up and picked up her right hand, examining her pale skin. After a moment, he lay her hand back as close to its original position as possible before looking across to Sherlock, who was watching him intently.

“Yeah. Asphyxiation, probably,” John said, looking to Lestrade as well. “Passed out, choked on her own vomit. Can’t smell any alcohol on her. It could have been a seizure, possibly drugs.”

“You know what it was. You’ve read the papers,” Sherlock said.

John looked around. “What, she’s one of the suicides? The fourth?”

“Sherlock,” Lestrade interrupted. “It’s been longer than two minutes. I need anything you’ve got.”

Sherlock stood up instantly as John began struggling to his feet.

“Maggie, you want to take this?”

Maggie looked up from where she had been intently examining the broken wall. “Uh, are you sure?”

Sherlock nodded. Lestrade closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. “Someone, just start talking.”

Maggie sighed and began. “Victim is in her late thirties. Going by her clothes and the alarming shade and amount of pink, I’d say she works in the media.”

Sherlock cut in. “She travelled from Cardiff today, intending to stay in London for one night.”

“Got that from the suitcase?” Maggie asked. Sherlock nodded, and Lestrade looked confused.

“Suitcase?” the inspector asked. John looked around the room.

“Suitcase, yes,” Sherlock said. “She’s been married at least ten years-”

“At most fifteen,” Maggie added.

“But not happily,” Sherlock said. He looked to Maggie. “Continue.”

“She’s had a string of lovers, but none of them knew she was married,” Maggie said.

“Oh for God’s sake,” Lestrade exclaimed. “If you’re just making this up-”

Sherlock cut him off, pointing to the corpse’s left hand. “Her wedding ring. Ten to fifteen years old. The rest of her jewellery has been regularly cleaned, but not her wedding ring.”

“State of her marriage, right there,” Maggie murmured.

Sherlock continued. “The inside of the ring is shinier than the outside - means it’s regularly removed. The only polishing it gets is when she works it off her finger.”

“It’s not for work; look at her nails,” Maggie said. She was finding herself once again enjoying this. “She doesn’t work with her hands, so what, or rather who, does she remove her rings for?” She paused, assuming that Sherlock was going to continue her thought. When he didn’t, she moved on. “Clearly it’s not _one_ lover; she’d never sustain the idea of being single for long.”

Now Sherlock did speak up. “It’s more likely to be a string of them.”

“Simple,” Maggie said.

“Amazing,” John said admiringly. Sherlock looked at him. “Sorry,” he apologized.

“Cardiff?” Lestrade asked.

Maggie looked to him, staring above his head. “It’s obvious, isn’t it?”

“It’s not obvious to me.” John said.

Sherlock looked between the two men. “Dear God,” he said. “What is it like in your funny little brains? It must be so boring.”

“That’s rude, Sherlock,” Maggie said quietly.

He ignored her. “Her coat: it’s slightly damp. She’s been in heavy rain in the last few hours. There’s been no rain in London in that time. Maggie.”

Maggie sighed and continued. “There’s an umbrella in her left pocket, but it’s dry - she didn’t use it. Under her coat collar is damp as well. She turned it up against the wind. Not just wind, but _strong_ wind - too strong to use her umbrella.”

“We know from her suitcase that she was intending to stay overnight, so she must’ve come a decent distance-”

“But no more than two or three hours because her coat hasn’t dried. So,” she said, looking to Sherlock, “where has there been heavy rain and strong wind within that travel time?” She was genuinely asking; she didn’t know.

Sherlock pulled out his phone and unlocked it, showing her the webpage he had been on earlier, then showing it to John and Lestrade. “Cardiff,” he said flatly.

“That’s fantastic!” John said loudly.

Sherlock turned, leaning close to the man. “Did you know they do that out loud?”

John looked rather embarrassed. “Sorry. I’ll shut up.”

“No, it’s… fine.” Sherlock answered, a small smile on his face.

Lestrade looked around, and then back to the two seemingly geniuses before him. “Why do you keep saying suitcase?”

Maggie and Sherlock began to look around.

“Yes, what have you done with it?” Maggie asked.

“She must’ve had a phone or organizer, something,” said Sherlock, moving around the room. “We need to find out who Rachel is.”

“She was writing ‘Rachel’?” Lestrade asked.

“No,” Sherlock answered sarcastically, “she was writing an angry letter in _German_! _Of course_ she was writing Rachel. The only question is, why did she wait until she was dying to write it?”

“How’d you know she had a suitcase?”

“Maggie, you take it. I saw that you noticed it.”

Maggie pointed down at the back of the woman’s tights, where she saw the tiny black splotches. “Back of her right leg. There are small splash marks on the heel and calf, and her left leg is clean. She was dragging a wheeled case behind her with her right hand. Smallish, going by the spread. Most likely an overnight bag, so she was staying for one night.”

Sherlock kneeled by the woman once more. “Yes, now where is it? What have you done with it?”

Lestrade crossed his arms. “There wasn’t a case.”

The consulting detective slowly looked up at the inspector, a deep frown in his features. “Say that again.”

“There wasn’t a case. There was never any suitcase.”

Before any of them could react, Sherlock was up and out of the room, heading down the stairs while he yelled out.

“Suitcase!” he yelled to the officers. “Did anyone find a suitcase? Was there a suitcase in this house?”

Many officers turned as he passed. Lestrade ran out onto the landing, with John close behind. Lestrade started calling down the stairs.

“Sherlock! There was no case!”

Halfway down, Sherlock stopped. “But they take the poison themselves,” he said. “They chew, swallow the pills themselves. There are clear signs, even you lot couldn’t miss them.”

Lestrade looked offended. “Right, yeah, thanks! _And_?”

Sherlock leaned out over the banister, looking at Lestrade. “It’s murder, all of them. I don’t know how, but they’re killings - _serial_ killings.” A look of delight spread on his face and he clapped his hands together. “We’ve got ourselves a serial killer. I _love_ those. There’s always something to look forward to.” He started back down the stairs.

Lestrade looked concerned. “Why are you saying that?”

Sherlock stopped again, yelling up the the others. “Her case! Come on, where is her case, did she _eat_ it? Someone else was here, and they took her case.” His voice dropped to a volume slightly less than normal. “So the killer must have driven her here - forgot the case was in the car.”

John looked down at the erratic man on the stairs. “She could have checked into a hotel, left her case there.”

Maggie, who had just come out of the room, answered him. “No, she never made it to the hotel. Look at her hair. She coordinates her lipstick and her shoes. She’d never leave a hotel with her hair looking so-”

She was cut off by Sherlock's sudden exclamation.

“Oh!” he yelled. “ _Oh_!” He clapped his hands together as his face seemed to light up. He had come to some realization.

“Sherlock?” John asked.

Lestrade leaned over the railing of the stairs to see what Sherlock was doing. “What? What is it?”

“Serial killers are always hard,” Sherlock said. “You have to wait for them to make a mistake.”

“We can’t just wait!” Lestrade yelled.

“Oh, we’re _done_ waiting!” Sherlock started excitedly down the stairs again. “Look at her, really _look_! Houston, _we have a mistake_!” Maggie smirked at his choice of words. “Get to Cardiff,” Sherlock continued. “Find out who Jennifer Wilson’s family and friends were. Find Rachel!” With that, he reached the bottom of the stairs and kept going, disappearing from view.

Lestrade called after him. “Of course, yeah - but what mistake?”

Sherlock ran back, coming up a few stairs and leaning over the railing to look up at the inspector. “ _PINK_!” he yelled.

He hurried off once more, leaving a baffled Lestrade to turn back to the room while Anderson led his own forensic team in behind.

John and Maggie were standing there, obviously forgotten. John looked to her for a moment before leading the way down the stairs. A few police officers bumped them as they hurried up the stairs, causing Maggie to sink into her coat and John to be thrown off balance and hold onto the banister to avoid falling. One of the officers looked at them apologetically. Maggie waited for John to regain his balance on the cane he didn’t really need. After they finished down the stairs and John got his coverall off, picking up his jacket from downstairs, they walked onto the street. John looked around for Sherlock, but Maggie knew he was gone. They reached the police tape, and thus Sergeant Donovan, who noticed John searching.

“He’s gone,” she said.

“Who, Sherlock?” John asked.

“Yeah, he just took off,” she answered. “He does that.”

John stuck his hands in his pockets. “Is he coming back?”

“Didn’t look like it.”

John pursed his lips, nodding. “Right.” He kept looking around, unsure of what to do. “Right. Yes.” He turned back to Donovan. “Sorry, where are we?”

She frowned. “Brixton.”

He nodded. “Um, do you know where I could get a cab? It’s just… well…” He looked down at his cane. “My leg,” he finished.

Donovan looked around for a moment before stepping over the tape and lifting it for the two. “Try the main road.”

Maggie and John ducked under the lifted tape.

“Thanks,” John said.

Donovan put down the tape. “But you’re not his friends.” The pair turned back. Sally tilted her head. “He doesn’t _have_ friends. So who _are_ you two?”

“I’m nobody,” John said. “I just met him.”

Sally looked to Maggie. “And you?”

Maggie shook her head. “He dragged me along.”

The sergeant nodded. “Okay, bit of advice then: stay away from that guy.”

John looked up sharply. “Why?”

Sally looked down, shaking her head. “You know why he’s here?” she asked, looking up. “He’s not paid or anything. He likes it. He gets off on it. The weirder the crime, the more he gets off. And you know what? One day just showing up won’t be enough. One day we’ll be standing around a body and Sherlock Holmes will be the one that put it there.”

Maggie frowned, trying to imagine the man she had just met killing someone. Sure he was a genius when it came to crime, but really? She couldn’t see him as a murderer. But maybe she didn’t know him well enough.

John looked shocked. “Why would he do that?”

Donovan gave him a pitiful look. “Because, he’s a psychopath. And psychopaths get bored.”

“Donovan!” a voice called out. The trio looked up to see Detective Inspector Lestrade standing in the doorway of the house, watching them.

“Coming!” Sally called. She started toward the house before turning back to John and Maggie.

“Stay away from Sherlock Holmes,” she advised.

Maggie and John watched her go for a moment, before John turned and started limping down the road.

“Come on, Maggie,” he said. “Let’s go.”

 


	7. Interest

Maggie followed dutifully behind John for a few blocks, wondering exactly when he was going to call a cab, like he had apparently planned.

“John?” she asked.

He stopped. “I, I’m thinking. About what that lady back there said. I think best when I walk, so if you want to get a cab…” he trailed off.

“When will you be back at the flat?”

“I… I don’t know. But I will be. Tonight or tomorrow morning.”

Maggie nodded, trusting his judgment.

“Will you be at the flat?” John asked her.

She frowned. “I don’t know.”

He watched her for a moment before nodding. He turned and continued down the street, leaving her behind. She cut through a nearby alleyway and turned left onto the street. She noticed a taxi coming her way and called for it, but it didn’t stop. She continued on. As she passed it, a phone in a public telephone box to her right started ringing. Maggie looked at it, but kept going without stopping. The phone stopped ringing. But as she kept going, a payphone in a nearby restaurant began to ring as well. She saw a man reach for it, but the sound suddenly stopped and he walked away. She reached the street at the end of the block and waited for the traffic to slow so she could cross when the telephone box next to her began ringing. She looked at it for a moment. Someone was obviously trying to contact her. It stopped ringing. Then it began again as she stood there.

Slowly, Maggie pulled open the door and closed it behind her as she entered the phone box.  She lifted the phone off its hook and paused for a moment before lifting it to her ear.

“Hello?” she asked warily.

A man’s voice came through the speaker, talking calmly. “There is a security camera on the building to your left,” it said. “Do you see it?”

She frowned deeply. “Who’s speaking?” she asked.

The man sighed. “Do you see the camera, Miss Archer?”

She started looking around, locating the camera. “How did you know my name?”

“That is unimportant. Do you see it or not?”

“Yeah, I see it.”

She could hear the smirk in the man’s voice as he said, “Watch.”

She stared at it. Where it had been pointing directly at the phone box, it now swiveled around, pointing the opposite direction. The voice continued.

“There is another camera on the building opposite,” it said. “Do you see it?”

She turned her head to see the other. “Yes,” she murmured. No sooner had she spoken than that camera also swiveled away.

“And, finally, at the top of the building to your right.”

She turned, wide-eyed as that camera too turned from her.

“How are you doing this?” she whispered.

The voice ignored her. “Get into the car, Ms. Archer.”

A black car pulled up to the curb nearby, and its driver, a tall, burly man in a suit, exited the front seat and opened the door closest to her, never speaking or looking her direction. Maggie stared in shock as the voice began again,

“I _would_ make some sort of threat, but I’m sure your situation is quite clear to you.” There was a click as whoever was on the other side of the line hung up.

And oh, was it. With those cameras facing away, no one could see her. There were few people on this particular street, and they could easily be plants, people whoever the mysterious man was had put there simply as background, who would never actually be witnesses should anything happen to her if she refused to go in the car. Without those cameras, the police would have nothing to go on. There was nothing much she could do.

Slowly, she placed the phone back on its hook before exiting the phone box and stepped toward the car. The driver still never even glanced at her. After she sat, the man shut the door and got into the driver’s seat, pulling away from the curb. Maggie looked over at the woman who was also sitting in the backseat. Her eyes were fixed on her phone, which she never paused typing on. Maggie looked away, deciding not to speak, and just focus on where the car was taking her.

“I’m Anthea,” the woman said.

“No, I doubt you are,” Maggie said, not turning from the window.

The woman smirked. “No, I’m actually not.”

“And I’m guessing you know who I am.”

“Of course.”

Maggie frowned and nodded contemplatingly, continuing to watch the passing lights. She knew there was no point in asking where she was going, so she just let the rest of the drive pass in silence, the woman continuing to type.

After a seemingly long ride, the car pulled into a drive that led to a large ominous warehouse. They pulled through an opening and into the building, where a man in a suit was waiting. He stood near a small chair and leaned slightly on an umbrella. He stood as if he were perfectly comfortable in the space, although Maggie highly doubted that he was. His expensive suit showed that he was used to a certain amount of luxury. He watched the car stop and didn’t move as Maggie climbed out, refusing the help of the driver. As she approached, the man smiled and gestured to the chair with his umbrella.

“Have a seat, Ms. Archer.”

She shook her head. “I’d rather not,” she said, her voice remaining calm although she was terrified. She looked around the warehouse. “Why here?”

The man tilted his head. “When one is avoiding the attention of Sherlock Holmes, one learns to be discreet. Hence this place.” He had been smiling the entire time he spoke, but then he looked to her, the smile gone. “Have a seat, Ms. Archer.”

“I don’t want to sit.”

The man paused. “You don’t seem very afraid.”

Didn’t she? She was terrified. She looked the man up and down. He must have a had a job that paid well, going by how expensive every bit of clothing he was wearing was. She noted how heavily he leaned on the umbrella and realized that he must’ve had something wrong with one of his knees, but was too prideful to carry a cane like John. It would make him look weak. The umbrella, however, served to make him look further refined, and on him, refined was rather scary. She looked up further, and saw the smirk on his face and in his eyes. The smirk so similar to someone else she had met. In fact, the more she looked, the more the similarities between this man and Sherlock came through. The nose, the hair color, and though this man had less of it, their hair held almost the same curly nature. She smiled, suddenly brave.

“You don’t seem too frightening,” she said quietly.

The man chuckled for a moment before looking at her seriously.

“Sit,” he ordered. This time she obeyed, and he circled her slowly. Once he came full circle, he stopped directly in front of her. “What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?”

She raised an eyebrow at him. “His landlady found me on the street and he dragged me along to a crime scene. I barely know him,” she said, crossing her arms. “What is your connection to him?”

The man pursed his lips. “I’m an interested party.”

She smirked. “Interested? Why? I don’t see you as his friend.”

He chuckled lowly. “You’ve met him. I’m sure you’ve realized by now that he doesn’t have many friends. Although, I am the closest thing to that he has.”

“And what’s that?”

“An enemy.”

“More like family.”

The man’s smile immediately changed to a frown. “They were right about you,” he murmured. “Very… intuitive. But, I’m still his enemy. At least, in his mind. If you were to ask him, he’d probably say arch-enemy. He is very keen to the dramatic.”

She smiled, remembering the first name she came up with for Sherlock. Dramatist. “Yes, I’ve noticed that.” She looked about the warehouse. “But at least _you’re_ above that,” she said, showing her sarcasm.

The man still frowned down at her. “Do you plan to continue your association with my brother?”

“Ah, it’s a brother,” she said. “And I doubt it.”

The man pulled a small leather notebook from his suit pocket and opened it. “Well, I have it on good authority that he’s planning for you to move into,” he paused, finding his place on the page, “two hundred and twenty-one B Baker Street with himself and Doctor John Watson.”

She stared at the notebook. “And what authority would that be?”

He snapped the book shut. “Confidential.”

“Well, tell them they’re wrong. Sherlock hasn’t mentioned any of that to me.”

“But he has to someone else.”

“ _Who_?”

He tilted his head as he smirked at her. “I’m sensing a bit of an anger problem?”

She looked away.

“Well,” he continued. “If you _do_ move in, I’d be happy to pay you a sum of money on a regular basis to help… ease your way.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re not wealthy, and we both know you need it.”

She closed her eyes. “In exchange for?”

“Information,” he answered. “Nothing indiscreet. Nothing… uncomfortable. Just tell me what he’s up to.”

“Why?”

He looked up towards the headlights of the car behind her. “I worry about him. Constantly,” he said. “But, should you accept, I would prefer that my concern go unmentioned. We have a… difficult relationship.”

“Brotherly feud?” she asked.

He frowned. “Something like that.”

She thought for a moment. She needed the money, but she didn’t want to spy. What would Sherlock tell her to do, in this situation?

 _Spy_ , she thought. _And only give out information he approves_. _A double-agent._ It would be easy. She hadn’t been sure she was even going back to the flat before, but she knew she wanted to. She had actually _enjoyed_ the evening, even with the dead body. And as much as she hated to admit it, she craved more. She liked using her intellect this way.

“I’ll do it,” she said, standing.

“I haven’t mentioned a figure,” he said.

She stood. “Don’t bother. I accept.”

He chuckled. “In that case, here’s an advance.” He pulled a stack of bills from the inside pocket of his suit and held it out. She reached out and gingerly took it, but before she could pull it from his grasp he grabbed her wrist. “What happened to your hand?” he asked, looking at her bandage.

She jerked away, dropping the bills. “I cut it on a plate.”

He pulled the notebook out again, opening it. “Social anxiety,” he said, gesturing to the page he had opened to. “You’re therapist back home said you wouldn’t likely get over it. But considering the large amount of stress you just underwent at a crime scene, and all the people you had to speak to, I’m surprised you aren’t having a breakdown. Could it be you’ve found your interest?”

“My interest?”

“Yes, Ms. Archer. The thing you can obsess over to distract yourself from the outside world. The one thing that makes it okay for you to be social, as long as it’s for the purpose of serving your interest. You have to have something to focus on, to keep you from being bored. Because _boredom_ ,” he said, circling around her, “is what makes you notice everything that wouldn’t bother you otherwise. Most who see a crime scene are mortified, and that would be even worse for someone like you, unless…” he trailed off. “Is solving crimes your interest, Margaret?” It was the first time he used her first name, on his lips it sounded like a threat.

“Are we done?” she asked stiffly.

He stopped in front of her. “You tell me.”

“We are,” she said. She bent and picked up the money from a small puddle on the floor, shoving it into the right pocket of her coat before turning to walk away.

“Pleasure meeting you, Ms. Archer,” he said, turning and walking in the other direction, twirling his umbrella.

As Maggie stalked toward the car, the woman from earlier stepped out, still locked to her Blackberry.

“I’m to take you home,” she said, never looking up from the screen. “Address?”

“Baker Street. Two twenty-one B.”


	8. Homeless Network

Once the car stopped in front of 221 Baker street, Maggie said goodbye to Not-Anthea, who was still glued to her Blackberry. She wondered briefly what she was typing, but reasoned that at least some of it was to her boss, the mysterious man from the warehouse whose name she never learned. Most of the rest was probably information her boss needed. Maggie almost asked her not to tell her boss where she went, but it would’ve been ridiculous. The woman would have told him where Maggie was going immediately.

After exiting the vehicle, she approached the door to 221 and knocked lightly as the car pulled away behind her. It took only a few moments before Mrs. Hudson rushed to open the door, smiling at the woman there.

“Maggie, dear,” she said, pulling her into a hug. “I just got the news. You’ll be staying around now, huh?”

“What? How did you know that?” she asked as she entered the doorway.

“Oh, Sherlock was just talking with me about it, and, well, I believe we work for a similar party now.”

Maggie’s eyes widened. “You're the good authority,” she said.

Mrs. Hudson gave a small smile, leading the girl into her kitchen. “Wouldn’t think of me as an agent, would you dear? But Sherlock knows. He always knows. And Mycroft’s just worried about him, really.”

“Mycroft?” she asked.

“Oh, that bugger. Forgot to tell you his name, just like he does everybody else. Anyone close to Sherlock ends up meeting him.”

Maggie nodded. “Where are they?” she asked, knowing that Mrs. Hudson knew whom she met.

“Oh, Sherlock’s upstairs, waiting on you I suppose, and John isn’t back yet.”

“Where is John?”

The older woman merely gave her a knowing smile.

“With Mycroft,” said another voice.

The women turned to see Sherlock standing in the doorway of the kitchen. He was no longer dressed in his jacket, but still had the black trousers and button up shirt on.

“He won’t take the deal,” Maggie said.

“Of course not,” Sherlock said. “He’s too loyal.”

“Pity,” she said. He nodded.

“I need to speak to you, upstairs,” he said, turning and sweeping from the room before rushing up the steps.

Maggie looked to Mrs. Hudson, who nodded for her to go. “Shouldn’t keep him waiting, dear.”

The younger woman exited the kitchen and turned to the stairs, moving at just a bit faster than her normal pace. She reached the door to 221B and entered, finding Sherlock to be digging through a box on the coffee table. He didn’t give any indication that he was aware of her presence, although Maggie was sure he was. She took off her coat and hung it on a peg before moving to sit in Sherlock’s armchair near the fireplace, waiting. He would talk when he was ready.

There were a few moments of quiet, the only noises the shifting of papers and other items within the box as he moved through it, obviously having some amount of trouble finding whatever he was looking for. Finally, however, he wrenched his arm out of the box, pulling out a fresh box of nicotine patches, and a few papers that came out with it and drifted onto the table. Sherlock sighed with relief and sat back on the couch, beginning to open the box. He looked up at the woman watching him.

“Want one?” he asked, tipping the box toward her.

She shook her head. “I’ve never smoked, no habit to kick.”

“I’m not trying to kick a habit,” he said, pulling out a few. “I’d rather keep my smoking, but Mrs. Hudson’s banned me from smoking in the flat.”

“But if you’re not trying to quit, then-”

“Smoking helps me think, but a dose of nicotine will do me almost as much good.” He lay back on the couch, tossing the box onto the table and opening a patch, pressing it to the skin on the inside of his left elbow.

“Ah,” Maggie said, although she didn’t completely understand.

“So you’ll be staying around now?” Sherlock asked.

“Hmm?”

“Well, if you’re spying on me for money, you’ll need to be around me.”

“Oh, that. Right. Yeah, I guess I’ll be here, since you were planning on that anyway.”

He smirked. “Mrs. Hudson or Mycroft?”

“Both,” she answered.

He sighed, leaning his head back on the arm of the couch. “Your test went very well today,” he murmured.

“You never told me what that was for.”

“Homeless Network,” he said.

“Am I supposed to know what that means?”

“It’s my eyes and ears all around London. I pay them to watch people I tell them to.”

She looked at him confused.

“It’s really indispensable,” he continued. “A constant flow of information.”

“So, you’re saying that you want me to be a part of your secret homeless spies?”

“Somewhat,” he said, reaching for the box of patches and ripping out another one. “I want you to run it for me.”

“Run it?”

“Do you have a phone?” he asked.

“No.”

“Well that’s rubbish. You’ll be needing one,” he put the patch next to the other on his arm and pressed down on it. “Mrs. Hudson!” he yelled. “I need to use your phone!”

Both waited a few moments, but the woman didn’t answer.

“Fine then,” he said. “I’ll just text John and get his. Not like his meeting with Mycroft will go anywhere anyway.” He reached into the pocket of his trousers and took out his mobile, immediately beginning to send a text.

“Why do you need his-” He gave her a look that stopped her words.

“Can’t risk using my phone for it.”

“For what?”

“A text.”

She gave up on understanding.

“We’ll be getting you a mobile as soon as possible,” he said, staring at the ceiling after finishing the text and laying the phone on the couch next to him.

“So you can text me to use my phone to send a text?” she asked sarcastically.

“No,” he said. “Well, maybe sometimes. But mostly so you can stay in constant contact with all the other informants, and relay any important information to me. You have an intellect that is very close to mine, as much as I hate to admit that anyone does.  But with you looking through information, you should now what is important and what’s not. You’re my middle man.” He was texting again.

“I’m you’re Anthea,” she muttered, thinking back to the woman from earlier. She had deduced that the woman was running through information for her boss.

“What?” he asked.

“Nothing.”

“Will you do it?”

She closed her eyes, thinking for a few minutes. This would mean that she would work with him on cases.  It was what she wanted. Not because of him, but because she enjoyed the work. Frankly, he was strange, although she felt understood him, at least somewhat. He had admitted she was intelligent, and she knew he wouldn’t come to anyone unless they were extremely useful to him. It was a good opportunity, and it was required she  stay around him to continue the income from his creepy big brother, something she desperately needed.  She sighed.

“I will,” she said.

“Good,” he said, picking up the phone again. He frowned at it before starting yet another text.

“Now what?” she asked.

“Now we wait.”

“On John?”

“On John.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Sorry this is a short chapter, but it seemed a good place to end it and start a new one. I was kinda worried about this part because I didn't know how I wanted to write it, or how apprehensive I wanted Maggie to be. But I decided that she had already made her mind when she accepted Mycroft's deal, even if she didn't know all the details of what Sherlock had planned for her. I hope you guys like it so far, and I promise to update soon!!! :)


	9. The Case

They waited for almost half an hour, Maggie choosing a random book from one of the shelves at one point and beginning to read in Sherlock’s chair. Sherlock never moved from his spot on the couch. As she read - the book was about some studies done in Africa on the Malaria virus - she found herself growing exhausted. The day had worn her down more than she realized, due to the adrenaline she felt at the crime scene. She didn’t know when she fell asleep, but she awoke to Sherlock’s voice some time later.

“Nicotine patch,” he was saying. “Helps me think. Impossible to sustain a smoking habit in London these days. Bad news for brainwork.” He clicked the _k_ in the word.

She opened her eyes slowly to see John standing in the doorway, staring at Sherlock. “It’s good news for breathing,” he said, walking further in.

“Breathing,” Sherlock said with a sigh. “Breathing’s boring.”

Maggie sat up a bit, rubbing her eyes, when she realized there was a blanket on her. It was the same blanket that Mrs. Hudson had put on her earlier that day. Also, the book she’d been reading was sitting on the coffee table nearby, a piece of paper marking her place.

“Is that three patches?” John was asking. Sherlock must have put on another while she was sleeping. Sherlock moved his hands, steepling them into a prayer position under his chin.

“It’s a three patch problem,” he said, closing his eyes.

John looked around the flat, seeing Maggie there.

“Hello,” he said. She gave a weak smile and a small wave. John looked back to Sherlock. “Well?”

Sherlock didn’t answer.

“Sherlock, you asked me to come. I’m assuming it’s important,” John said.

Sherlock still didn’t respond for a moment. John looked as if he were about to give up on trying, but a few seconds later Sherlock’s eyes snapped open.

“Oh, yeah, of course,” he said, still staring at the ceiling. “Can I borrow your phone?”

“My _phone_?” John asked.

“Don’t want to use mine,” the other man answered. “Always the chance the number will be recognized. It’s on the website.”

“Mrs. Hudson’s got a phone,” John said, annoyance plain in his voice.

“Yeah, she’s downstairs. I tried shouting but she didn’t hear.”

John scoffed. “I was on the _other side of London_!”

“There was no hurry,” Sherlock said calmly.

John looked at the ceiling, sighing before digging in his jacket pocket and holding out his phone. “Here.” Sherlock put up a hand, but didn’t reach for it. John gave him a look that could kill before slamming it into the other man’s hand, who slowly steepled his hands again, the phone now in between them. John walked around a bit before turning back.

“So what’s this about? The case?” he asked.

“Her case,” Sherlock said quietly.

“ _Her_ case?”

Sherlock opened his eyes. “Her suitcase, obviously. The murderer took her suitcase - first big mistake.”

“Okay,” John said. “He took her case. So?”

“It’s no use,” Sherlock said quietly again, as if he were talking to himself. “There’s no other way. We’ll have to risk it.” He suddenly held the phone out to John, raising his voice to the normal level as he spoke. “On my desk there’s a number. I want you to send a text.”

John stared at the phone for a moment before turning to Maggie, a look of disbelief on his face. She shrugged and he turned back.

“You brought me here,” he muttered tightly, “to send a _text_?”

Sherlock was still holding out the phone, not looking toward John. “Text, yes. The number on my desk.”

John glowered at the man. Maggie figured he was considering then telling Sherlock the exact thing others did. _Piss off_. But eventually he stomped over and snatched the phone from the man’s hand. Sherlock closed his eyes again and put his hands back into their earlier position. John stepped away, but didn’t go to the desk for the number. Instead, he moved toward the window, shifting the curtain and searching the street outside.

“What’s wrong?” Maggie asked.

John paused, looking back to the man on the couch.

“Just met a friend of yours, Sherlock,” he said.

Sherlock tensed, frowning. “A friend?”

“An enemy,” John clarified.

Somehow, Sherlock seemed to relax at the idea that John had met an enemy. “Ah. Which one?”

Maggie’s eyebrows crinkled. Sherlock knew where John had been, who he had been with. Why was he acting as if he didn’t?

“Your arch-enemy, according to him. Do people actually have arch-enemies?”

Sherlock looked at the other man for the first time since he entered the flat, narrowing his eyes. “Did he offer you money to spy on me?”

“Yes.”

“Did you take it?”

“No.”

“Pity,” Sherlock said, looking away again. “We could have split the fee. Think it through next time, will you? Maggie did.”

John turned back to her. “Oh, right,” she said. “Forgot that.” She slowly stood and walked to her coat on the peg, reaching into the pocket. She felt around, but nothing was there.

“Looking for this?”

She looked up to see Sherlock counting a stack of slightly damp money.

“Oi!” she exclaimed. “When did you get that?”

He ignored her question. “I took the liberty of splitting it while you slept. 75 for myself, 25 for you.”

“Um, I think not,” she said, stalking toward him. “50-50.”

Sherlock frowned at her and there was a short time of staring before he sighed, reaching into his trouser pocket and pulling out the other stack of cash, getting the rest of hers. She held out her hand and he put it into her palm. Smiling in satisfaction, she turned back and slid it into the right pocket on her coat.

“You met him too?” John asked.

“Before you did,” she answered.

“Did he take you to the same warehouse, John?” Sherlock asked.

She turned to the man. “I never told you he took me to a warehouse.”

Sherlock merely raised an eyebrow at her and traced the damp area of the bills in his hands.

“Ah,” she said. “Of course.”

John closed his eyes and pressed his fingers under his temples.

“Who is he?” he asked.

“The most dangerous man you’ve ever met,” the detective answered. Maggie rolled her eyes. No matter what, Sherlock had a flair for the dramatic. “Also, not my problem right now,” he continued. “On my desk, the number.”

John gave him an annoyed look but strode toward the table, picking up a piece of paper. Maggie looked at it as she moved back to Sherlock’s chair, tucking her legs underneath herself. It looked like it was from a luggage label.

“Jennifer Wilson,” John said, looking at the name on the paper. “Isn’t that the dead woman?”

“Yes,” Maggie answered.

“That’s not important,” Sherlock said. “Just enter the number.”

John shook his head and began typing on the phone.

“Are you doing it?” Sherlock asked.

“Yeah.”

“Have you done it?”

“Ye - _hang on_!”

Sherlock ignored his outburst, continuing as if John had finished. “These words exactly: ‘What happened at Lauriston Gardens? I must have blacked out.’”

John began typing, giving Sherlock a sidelong look, obviously confused and concerned with what he was saying.

“22 Northumberland Street. Please come,” Sherlock finished.

John was typing for a moment when he stopped. “You blacked out?” he asked.

“What?” Sherlock asked. “No. _No_!” The man stood up from the couch stepped onto the table in front of the couch in order to take the quickest route to the kitchen. “Type it and send it. _Quickly_.”  
Sherlock came back from the kitchen carrying a small pink suitcase and a chair. He pulled the coffee table next to John’s armchair around and sat the case on it, placing the chair near Maggie’s before sitting in it. Maggie’s eyes widened at the sight of the case, but Sherlock didn’t seem to notice. He looked back to John, who was still typing by the desk.

“Have you sent it?”

“What’s the address?” John asked.

“22 Northumberland Street,” Sherlock said, annoyed. “Hurry up!”

John finally finished the message and turned toward the two as Sherlock unzipped the case, flipping open the lid. Maggie sat up straighter to look at the contents. There were a few different items of clothing, all in that ghastly pink, a washbag, and a paperback novel. Maggie picked it up. _Come to Bed Eyes_ by Paul Bunch. Maggie grimaced in disgust before tossing it back into the case. John walked around her armchair before staggering a bit. She looked up to see the shock in his eyes.

“That’s… That’s the pink lady’s case. Jennifer Wilson’s case,” John stated. Maggie of course already knew this as well, but wasn’t as surprised as John. Just as Sherlock had said, he just had to search the nearby alleyways large enough to fit a car. He had probably found it within an hour of leaving the crime scene.

“Yes, obviously,” Sherlock said, studying the case closely. John continued to stare and the other man looked up at him. Observing his expression, the detective rolled his eyes. “Oh, perhaps I should mention - I didn’t kill her,” he said sarcastically.

John looked at him. “I never said you did.”

“Why not?” Sherlock asked. “Given the text I just had you send and the fact that I have her case, it’s a perfectly logical assumption.”

Maggie turned to the detective, a question in her eyes. “So do people usually assume you’re the murderer?”

Sherlock smirked at her. “Now and then, yes.”

“Okay,” she said as John limped over and dropped heavily into the armchair across from herself and Sherlock.

“How did you get this?” John asked.

“By looking,” Sherlock answered.

“Where?"

Sherlock braced his hands on the seat of his dining chair and lifted his feet into the seat underneath him, perching on the seat and clasping his hands under his chin, elbows resting on his now-raised knees.

“The killer must have driven her to Lauriston Gardens. He could only keep her case by accident if it was in the car. Nobody could be seen with this case without drawing attention-”

“Particularly a man, which is more likely,” Maggie cut in, looking at Sherlock.

“So obviously he’d feel compelled to get rid of it the moment he noticed he still had it,” Sherlock continued, as if she had said nothing. “Wouldn’t have taken him more than five minutes to realise his mistake. I checked every back street wide enough for a car within five minutes of Lauriston Gardens, and anywhere you could dispose of a bulky object without being observed.”

“Took you less than an hour, didn’t it?” Maggie asked.

He nodded. “Wasn’t hard to find the right skip.”

Maggie’s nose crinkled. “You went dumpster diving?”

“I showered,” he said.

“Pink,” John’s voice interrupted them. “You got all that because you realized the case would be pink?”

“Well, it had to be pink, obviously,” Maggie said before turning to Sherlock. “Why didn’t you tell me you had this when I got here?”

Sherlock began to answer when John talked quietly to himself. “Pink. Why didn’t I think of that?”

“Because you’re an idiot,” Sherlock answered John’s thought. Both John and Maggie looked at Sherlock in shock before he waved his hand at them. “No, no, no,” he said. “Don’t look like that. Practically everyone is.” When John looked back to the case Sherlock gave Maggie a pointed look, as if telling her she wasn’t part of that _everyone_. Then he folded his hands together and extended his first fingers to point at the case. “Now, look,” he said, although it seemed to no one. “Do you see what’s missing?”

“From the case?” John asked. “How could I?”

Maggie picked up a pencil from the coffee table and used it to move some of the objects within the case.

“Her phone,” she said. “Where’s her mobile phone?”

Sherlock shook his head. “There was no phone on the body, there’s no phone in the case. We know she had one - that’s her number there; you just texted it.”

John shrugged. “Maybe she left it at home.”

Sherlock raised himself up again and pulled his feet from under him, once again sitting normally.

“No, she has a string of lovers and she’s careful about it,” Maggie said.

“She’d never leave her phone at home,” Sherlock finished her thought, beginning to slip the luggage label John had gotten the number from back into its place on the luggage, looking at John expectantly. MAggie looked, too. He’d get it any moment now.

“Um,” John murmured, looking to his phone on the arm of the chair. “Why did I just send that text?”

“Well, the question is: where is her phone now?”

“She could have lost it,” John said.

“Yes, or…?”

John thought for a short moment before slowly speaking. “The murderer… You think the murderer has her phone?”

“Maybe she left it when she left her case,” Maggie said, understanding Sherlocks logic. “Maybe he took it from her for some reason.”

“Either way, the balance of probability is: the murderer has her phone,” Sherlock said.

John looked at the man as if he were insane. “Sorry, what are we doing?” he asked. “Did I just text a _murderer_? What good will that do?”

As if on cue, the phone on the arm of the chair began to ring. Maggie looked quickly at the screen before John picked it up. _(Withheld) Calling_. John stared at Sherlock as the phone continued to ring.

Sherlock was staring at the phone as well. “A few hours after his last victim, and now he receives a text that can only be from her. If somebody had just found the phone they’d ignore a text like that, but the murderer,” he paused as the phone stopped ringing. “He’d panic.”

Sherlock flipped the lid of the suitcase and stood, walking across the room to pick up his jacket. Maggie stayed in her seat, and John was still staring at his phone. Finally, he looked up.

“Have you talked to the police?”

“Four people are dead. There isn’t time to talk to the police,” Sherlock said, putting on the coat.

“So why are you talking to _me_?”

Sherlock also grabbed his scarf, and looked over the top of John’s head at the mantlepiece as he put it on.

“Mrs. Hudson took my skull,” he murmured.

John narrowed his eyes a bit in confusion. “So basically I’m filling in for your skull?”

“Relax, you’re doing fine,” Sherlock said with a smirk. John didn’t move.

“Well?” Sherlock asked.

“Well what?”

“You could just sit there and watch telly,” Sherlock said chastisingly.

“What?” John asked. “You want me to come with you?”

“I like company when I go out, and I think better when I talk aloud. The skull just attracts attention, so…” he trailed off.  John smiled briefly.

“Problem?” Sherlock asked.

“Sergeant Donovan,” John said.

Sherlock gave an annoyed gasp. “What about her?”

“She said you get off on this. You enjoy it.”

Sherlock smirked at the other man. “And I said ‘dangerous’, and here you are.”

Maggie didn’t know what he meant by that, but she was beginning to feel her eyelids droop once more.

John sat thoughtfully for a few moments before angrily getting up, leaning heavily on his cane. “ _Dammit_!” he yelled, hurrying out the door and passing Sherlock.

“Call the cab, I’ll be down in a minute,” Sherlock called after him before turning to Maggie, who was beginning to get up. “You’re exhausted,” he said. “I think you should stay here, sleep it off. We’ll be back in an hour or so.”

She nodded slowly. “I’ll just sleep here,” she said quietly.

He shook his head. “If you do that you’ll likely wake up with terrible pain in your back and neck.” He thought for a moment. “Take my bed. It’s not like I sleep most of the time anyway, so you’ll be fine there.”

She shook her head. “No, no, I can’t put you out like that.”

“I already said for you to take it, and I wouldn’t have offered if it would have inconvenienced me,” he persisted. “Come on.” He grabbed her arm and pulled her up, leading her through the kitchen and hall and opening the door to his bedroom. He sat her on the bed and opened a few drawers, pulling out one of his blue shirts and a pair of black sweats. “You can wear these. We’ll be getting you more clothes soon, but for now this will have to do to sleep in.”

She nodded appreciatively as he handed her the clothing.

“Bathroom’s right down the hall if you’d like a shower,” he said. “Make yourself at home. We’ll be back soon.”

He turned and strode from the room without another glance her direction, and she stared down at the pile of clothing in her lap. After she was sure he was gone, she got up and went into the bathroom, taking him up on the offer of a shower. Unfortunately there were only his shampoos and soaps, so she left the water smelling like him. Not that it was bad, but it was strange. She padded into the living room wrapped in a towel and searched in the pockets of her coat to find a hair tie before returning to the bathroom to brush her long, dark brown hair and pull it into a ponytail. She washed her face a bit more, suddenly longing for a toothbrush. Sighing, she looked into the mirror. Her dark green eyes stared back, brighter than they’d been in years. She was finally feeling happy, like she belonged. This was where she was supposed to be, and she knew it.

She walked back into Sherlock’s room, shutting the door. Slowly, she changed, buttoning the shirt up to the collar. It was far too large for her, the sleeves hanging a few inches past the tips of her fingers, and she had to roll up the bottoms of the sweats to clear her feet. She climbed into his bed, revelling in it’s softness and she curled up, grabbing onto a nearby pillow. It only took her seconds to fall into a deep sleep there.

 


	10. Drugs Bust

Maggie didn’t know how long she had slept, but it didn’t feel like long. She awoke to thudding footsteps around the flat outside. Mrs. Hudson’s muffled voice could be heard through the closed door of Sherlock’s room, and Maggie could plainly hear the worry in it. She suddenly began worrying when she also could hear Detective Inspector Lestrade. She sat up and rubbed her eyes and head. _The boys just went after a murderer_ , she thought. Why were the police there? Unless…

She was out of the bed in an instant, the door flying open as she ran into the flat. _Unless something bad happened_.

She froze as she saw all the officers in the flat, searching different areas.

Lestrade was turning in a circle in the living room, speaking to every officer. “Find whatever else he may be hi-” The man stopped and stood stock still when he saw Maggie. She hadn’t made it farther than the hallway, standing there with obvious fright in her eyes. Her hair was a mess since it half of it had come out of the ponytail, and she hadn’t dried it before lying down, leaving it wet. It was also painfully obvious that she whose clothing she was wearing. Lestrade’s eyes widened slightly at the sight of her.

“What’s going on?” she asked.

“I could ask you the same thing,” Lestrade said quietly, obviously in shock. “You just came from…”

“What’s _going on_?” she asked again, more forcefully.

The detective blinked a few times. “Uh,” he stuttered, trying to regain his composure.

Just then Sergeant Donovan walked around the corner, carrying a box of papers which she subsequently dropped the moment she saw Maggie. Papers flew everywhere.

“He’s _shagging_ her?” the woman said in disbelief. Every officer turned to look.

Maggie’s jaw dropped. “ _What_?” She looked down at her appearance.

“I don’t have to be Sherlock to make that deduction,” a voice said. Maggie looked up to see Anderson looking her up and down with a smug look on his face. “Although I didn’t see him as the type to-”

“Anderson, shut up while you’re ahead,” Lestrade said, cutting him off as he watched the fury grow on Maggie’s face.

“Not that it concerns any of _you_ ,” she said with a pointed look to Donovan and Anderson, “But _n_ o I am not _shagging Sherlock Holmes_.”

“Then why-” Lestrade began.

“I didn’t have anything to wear, so he gave me these,” she said, gesturing to the clothes. “And I had no where to go, so he offered me his bed to sleep in while he and John went out.”

The officers turned back to their work, which seemed to be searching the flat.

“Now that’s settled, what the _hell_ is going on?” she asked, closing Sherlock’s bedroom door and walking to Lestrade.

“Drugs bust,” he said.

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Wrong.”

Lestrade sighed. “He does that too, but usually through a text.” He looked around. “That,” he said, pointing to the suitcase, which was still on the coffee table between the armchairs, “is why we are here. We may call Sherlock in on cases but that doesn’t mean he can go off on his own. We need to know if he has any other evidence.”

“Or if he killed her,” Anderson cut in. Lestrade gave him a dark look that made him turn back around.

“So you host some _bullshit drugs bust_?” Maggie yelled, her anger getting the better of her.

“Yes,” Lestrade said.

Suddenly a yell could be heard from down the stairs. Sherlock.

“Mrs. Hudson! Doctor Watson _will_ be taking the room upstairs!”

“Well,” Lestrade said, sitting in Sherlock’s armchair,. “He’s back.”

Maggie moved to the doorway of the flat. Downstairs she could hear Mrs. Hudson speaking to Sherlock, finally just telling him “Upstairs.” After that, his form could be seen rushing up the steps. He looked from Maggie in the doorway to Lestrade inside, who was once again ordering his officers.

“What’s are you doing?” Sherlock asked, storming toward the other detective. John came rushing inside shortly behind the other man, nodding in Maggie’s direction as he entered the door. She looked down the stairs to see Mrs. Hudson standing on the bottom landing, looking worried. Maggie made a placating gesture with her hands, mouthing that everything would be fine. The woman nodded, biting her lip before going back to her own flat.

“Well, I knew you’d find the case,” Lestrade was saying. “I’m not stupid.”

Maggie turned and leaned against the nearby wall, crossing her arms to watch Sherlock and the other man go at it.

“You can’t just _break into my flat_ ,” Sherlock said.

“And you can’t withhold evidence,” the detective retorted. “Also, I didn’t break into your flat.”

“Then what do you call this then?” Sherlock asked, a muscle in his jaw twitching as he gritted his teeth.

Lestrade looked about at his officers before looking back to Sherlock, an innocent look on his face. “It’s a drugs bust.”

John’s eyebrows scrunched together. “ _Seriously_?” he asked. The men looked at him. “This guy? A _junkie_?”

Sherlock turned and walked a bit closer to John, speaking quietly as he bit his lip. “John…”

John ignored the man, still speaking to Lestrade. “I’m pretty sure you could search this flat all day, and you wouldn’t find anything you could call _recreational_.”

“John, you probably want to shut up now,” Sherlock said.

“But come on,” John said, looking to the man and stopping whatever he was about to say. Sherlock looked extremely serious, and Maggie’s eyes widened as well.

“No,” she said. Sherlock looked over to where she was standing nearby.

“What?” he asked angrily.

“You?” John asked.

Sherlock looked back and forth between the two of them. “Shut up!” he said, irritation obvious in his voice. He turned back to Lestrade. “I’m not your sniffer dog,” he said.

“No, Anderson’s my sniffer dog,” the other man said, nodding toward the kitchen.

“What?” Sherlock asked, turning. “And-”

The forensic scientist gave a sarcastic wave from the other room.

Sherlock’s rage was growing, and it was obvious. “Anderson, what are you doing here on a drugs bust?”

The man gave a hard smile. “Oh, I _volunteered_.”

“They all did,” Lestrade said. Sherlock turned back to the man, biting his lip, though anger was still in his eyes. “They’re not on the drugs squad, strictly speaking, but they are very _keen_.”

Maggie moved to the couch and sat as Sergeant Donovan came into view, poking around the doorway to the kitchen and holding a jar full of round, white objects.

“Are these _human_ eyes?” she asked, looking disgusted.

Sherlock turned, waving his hand at her. “Put those back!”

“They were in the _microwave_!” she said.

“ _It’s an experiment_!” Sherlock answered.

“Keep looking guys,” Lestrade cut in, standing up and facing Sherlock. “Or,” he said. “You could help us properly and I’ll stand them down.”

Sherlock began pacing to get out some of his anger. “This is _childish_ ,” he told the detective.

“I’m dealing with a child,” the other man said plainly. “Sherlock, this is our case. I’m letting you in, but you do _not_ go off on your own. Clear?”

The taller man stopped right before Lestrade and glared at him. “Oh, what, so-so-so you set up a pretend drugs bust to _bully me_?” Maggie was surprised to hear the detective stutter.

“It stops being pretend if they find anything,” the other man said, the threat obvious in his voice.

“ _I am clean_!” Sherlock yelled.

“Is your flat?” Lestrade asked. “All of it?”

“I don’t even _smoke_ ,” the detective said, unbuttoning the cuff of his shirt and rolling it up to show the nicotine patches that still rested there.

“Neither do I,” Lestrade said, doing the same to show a singular patch on his own arm.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, turning away as they both put their sleeves down.

“Let’s work together,” Lestrade said. “We’ve found Rachel.”

Sherlock turned back, immediately intrigued.

“Who is she?” Maggie asked.

Lestrade looked to her. “Jennifer Wilson’s only daughter. Who _are_ you, by the way?”

“Maggie,” she said.

“She’s with me,” Sherlock said.

“ _With_ you?” Lestrade asked, obviously thinking back to when she had come from Sherlock’s room.

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. “A _colleague_ , Lestrade. You know me, that’s not what I’m like.” He waved a hand. “Not important right now. Rachel was her daughter? Why would she write her daughter’s name?” he mumbled to himself. “Why?”

“Nevermind that,” Anderson’s voice came from the kitchen. “We found the case,” he said, pointing at the object on the coffee table. “And according to _someone_ , the _murderer_ has the case. And we found it in the hands of our favorite psychopath.”

Sherlock turned around faster than seemed humanly possible, whirling on Anderson.

“I’m not a _psychopath_ , Anderson. I’m a high functioning sociopath. Do your research,” he said angrily, before turning back to Lestrade.

“You need to bring Rachel in. You need to question her. I need to question her.”

“She’s dead,” Lestrade said.

“Oh, excellent!”

John and Maggie stared at Sherlock in shock.

“How, when, and why?” Sherlock asked. “Is there a connection? There _has_ to be.”

“Well, I doubt it, since she’s been dead for _fourteen years_ ,” the detective said, crossing his arms. “Technically she was never alive. Rachel was Jennifer Wilson’s stillborn daughter, fourteen years ago.”

John and Maggie grimaced, John turning away. Sherlock looked confused.

“No, that’s… That’s not right,” he said quietly. “Why would she do that?”

“Of course, why _would_ she think of her daughter in her last moments?” Anderson asked from the kitchen, a sarcastic tone in his voice. “Yup, sociopath - I’m seeing it now.”

“Shut _up_ , Anderson,” Maggie said. Sherlock turned to the man in the kitchen.

“She didn’t think about her daughter. She scratched her name on the floor with her fingernails. She was _dying_. It would have taken effort. It would have _hurt_.” On the last sentence, he began to pace again, biting his lip as he thought.

“Sherlock?” Maggie said. He looked at her. “You said that the victims took the poisons themselves, that the murderer _makes_ them take it. Well, I don’t know… Maybe he talks to them? Maybe he used her daughter’s death to make her want to kill herself?”

Sherlock gnawed on his lip. “But that was ages ago! Why would she still be upset about it?”

Everyone in the flat seemed to stop, the room growing silent. Maggie put her head in her hands. He just didn’t understand.

Sherlock was looking rather awkwardly at John. “Not good?” he asked.

John glanced around the flat. “Bit not good, yeah.”  
Sherlock shook his head, stepping closer to the two people. “If you were dying, if you’d been murdered, in your last few seconds, what would you say?” he asked.

“Please, God, let me live,” John answered.

“It’s too soon,” came Maggie’s.

Sherlock groaned. “Oh, use your _imagination_!”

Both looked at him. “I don’t have to,” they both said, although John was a bit louder, and managed to keep eye contact with Sherlock as the words came from his mouth.

Sherlock saw the pain in John’s eyes, and looked at Maggie, who was staring dejectedly at her own hands in her lap. He paused for a moment, blinking a few times before shifting his feet and looking at the two of them, a small apology in his eyes. Maggie looked up and nodded once at him, twisting her mouth as she looked away again.

“But if you were clever,” Sherlock said quietly, the thought of them gone once again, “really clever… Jennifer Wilson was clever, running all those lovers…” he trailed off, pacing again. “She’s trying to tell us something.”

Mrs. Hudson suddenly rushed up the stairs and into the living room, stopping just beyond the door and pointing over her shoulder. “Isn’t the doorbell working? Your taxi’s here, Sherlock,” she said, looking around at the officers, a worried look growing once more on her features.

“I didn’t order a taxi,” Sherlock snapped, continuing to pace. “Go away.”

Mrs. Hudson frowned a bit at him before looking around. “Oh, dear. They’re making such a mess. What are they looking for?”

“It’s a drugs bust, Mrs. Hudson,” John said.

Mrs. Hudson looked at him, shock forming on her face.

“But they’re just for my hip,” she said. “They’re _herbal soothers_.”

Before John or Maggie could react to that comment, Sherlock stopped dead in his pacing, throwing up his hands.

“Shut up!” he yelled. “Everybody, _shut up_! Don’t _move_ , don’t _speak_ , don’t _breathe_. I’m trying to think!  Anderson, face the other way. You’re putting me off.”

“ _What_?” Anderson said. “My _face_ is?”

“Everybody quiet and still,” Lestrade ordered, looking intrigued. “Anderson, turn your back!”

“Oh, for _God’s sake_!” the forensic analyst exclaimed. Lestrade looked at him sternly.

“Your back, _now_ , please!” Lestrade ordered again.

The analyst shook his head in exasperation as he turned slowly.

Sherlock was mumbling to himself quietly. Maggie scooted down the couch to get closer to him and hear what he was saying.

“Come on,” he said. “Think!” He hit his temple with the butt of his palm.

Mrs. Hudson was biting her lip. “What about your taxi?” she asked quietly.

Sherlock turned, obvious fury on his face. “ _Mrs. Hudson_!” he yelled. The woman jumped in fright and hurried away down the stairs. As she did, Sherlock suddenly stopped, looking around in wonder. He realised something.

“Oh!” he said, smiling in delight. “She was _clever_! Clever, yes!” He walked around the table, stepping in front of Maggie and looking to the rest of the room. “She’s cleverer than you lot, and she’s _dead_. Do you see? Do you get it? She didn’t lose her phone, _she planted it on him_.”

Maggie stood up from the couch, suddenly understanding what Sherlock was saying. “ _Oh_!” she yelled. Sherlock whirled on her, and she took a step back, not realising how close he had been.

“When she got out of the car, she knew she was going to her death,” she continued, walking around to the table and to Lestrade, “She left the phone in order to lead us to her killer!”

Lestrade looked over the shorter woman’s head at Sherlock. “But how?”

Sherlock stared at him. “What do you mean, _how_?”

Everyone was still staring at Sherlock and Maggie, blank looks on their faces.

“ _Rachel_!” they both said.

Sherlock looked around, triumphant. Still, no one else understood.

“Don’t you see?” he asked. “Rachel!” Everyone just continued to stare. The two geniuses looked at each other in disbelief. It was _obvious_. Sherlock looked at Lestrade. “Look at you lot,” he said. “You’re all so vacant. Is it nice not being me? It must be so _relaxing_.”

Maggie gave him a stern look. “Rachel is not a name,” she said, trying to explain.

John was looking at them in the same way the police were. “Then what is it?”

“John, on the luggage,” Sherlock said as he moved toward the desk, sitting in front of his laptop. “There’s a label. E-mail address.”

John got up and went to the object, reading the address aloud as Maggie moved to Sherlock’s side. “Er, jennie dot pink at mephone dot org dot UK,” he said.

Sherlock began typing. “Oh, I’ve been too slow,” he muttered. “She didn’t have a laptop, which means she did her business on her phone, so it’s a smartphone. It’s e-mail enabled.” He pulled up the MePhone website and typed in the e-mail address. “So,” he continued. “There was a website for her account. The username is her e-mail address, and all together now: the password is…”

“Rachel,” Maggie said from next to him.

Sherlock nodded, entering the information and logging in.

“So we can read her e-mails,” Anderson said. “So _what_?”

“Anderson, don’t talk aloud. You’ll lower the I.Q. of the whole street,” Sherlock said, not answering the man’s question.

“We can do much more than read her e-mails,” Maggie said, turning toward the man in the kitchen. “It’s a smartphone. It’s got GPS, which means we if you lose it you can locate it online.”

“She’s leading us directly to the man who killed her,” Sherlock said.

“Unless he got rid of it,” Lestrade said, crossing his arms.

“We know he didn’t,” John said.

Sherlock was looking impatiently at the screen. “Come on, come on,” he muttered. “ _Quickly_!”

Mrs. Hudson came trotting up the stairs again, concern etching her features. “Sherlock, dear, this taxi driver -”

Sherlock stopped her there, turning from the computer and getting up to walk to her. “Mrs. Hudson, isn’t it time for your _evening soother_?”

Maggie took the seat he had vacated as John moved closer, looking over her shoulder. A clock was spinning round on the screen, a countdown saying that the phone would be located in three minutes or less. Maggie bit her lip.

Sherlock turned to Lestrade. “We need to get vehicles, get a _helicopter_.”

Mrs. Hudson was still there, looking around anxiously. A man walked up behind her, staying just out of the light. Sherlock continued to talk.

“We’re going to have to move fast. The phone’s battery won’t last forever.”

Lestrade gave him a confused look. “We’ll just have a map reference, not a _name_.”

“It’s a start!” Sherlock yelled.

A map opened on the computer, beginning to zoom in.

“Sherlock…” Maggie called.

The man hurried across the room to look over her shoulder opposite John. “What is it? Where?”

The map finished zooming.

“It’s here,” John murmured. “It’s in two-two one Baker Street.

Sherlock straightened. “How can it be here?”

“Maybe it was in the case when you brought it back and it fell out somewhere.”

“And I didn’t notice?” Sherlock asked. “Me? I didn’t notice?”

John looked to Lestrade. “We texted him and he called back.”

Lestrade sighed, turning to the officers.

“Guys, we’re also looking for a mobile somewhere around here. It belonged to the victim. Most likely pink or in a pink case.”

Maggie looked up to Sherlock, who was looking around the flat. It was obvious to her that she had tuned him out, and was remembering something. The man no one had noticed had reached the top of the stairs behind Mr. Hudson. Sherlock was standing in the middle of the flat, looking rather lost. Maggie would have chuckled had she not realised the gravity of the situation that they were in. On the landing just outside the door, the man was typing something into a phone. A phone with a pink case. Suddenly Sherlock’s phone buzzed. He pulled it out and read whatever message he had gotten, although Maggie couldn’t see it. Sherlock turned to the door just in time to see the man turn and calmly begin walking down the stairs. Maggie turned as well, but was too late. Also, while sitting, she couldn’t see down the stairs as Sherlock could - she didn’t see anyone.

“Sherlock?” she asked. “You okay?”

He didn’t look at her, still watching the stairs. “What? Yeah. Yeah, I’m… fine.”

“So,” John said. “How can the phone be here?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Dunno,” he said.

 _Bullshit_ , Maggie thought. He was on to something, though she didn’t know what.

John stood up and pulled his own phone from his jeans pocket. “I’ll try calling it again.”

“Good idea,” Sherlock murmured, only half listening as he drifted toward the door.

“Where are you going?” Maggie asked, suspicious.

“Fresh air,” he said. “Just popping outside for a moment. Won’t be long.”

She frowned as he left the room. “Sure you’re okay?” she called, standing up.

Sherlock was hurrying down the stairs. “I’m fine.” he called.

She had her doubts. She stood and moved to the window, looking outside. Sherlock exited the building, where a cabbie stood, leaning against his taxi. They talked for a few moments, and Sherlock looked up at the window. Maggie stared back. Sherlock shook his head despairingly before turning, getting into the door the cabbie opened for him. The cabbie shut it behind him and turned, getting into the driver’s seat. Maggie’s eyes widened as her mind raced and she realised who that cabbie was. She turned and took off through the flat, grabbing her coat from the hook as she passed. John saw and looked out the window, seeing Sherlock’s cab pull away.

“He just got into a cab,” John said. “Sherlock. He just drove off in a cab.”

Maggie had just made it out the door downstairs, running as if to catch it. Knowing it was pointless, she stopped, calling a cab of her own and climbing in.

“Follow that cab!” she yelled to the driver, pointing.

The cabbie looked at her. “I’ve always wanted someone to say that,” he said, a smirk on his face as he began driving after the other cab.


	11. Moriarty

The cabbie ahead didn’t seem to realize they were following behind.

“Boyfriend leave ya, miss?” Maggie’s driver asked, eyeing her from the mirror.

She shook her head.

“What we following for, then?”

She frowned, trying to make an excuse. “Uh, my brother. He’s a drug addict,” she said, thinking back to the ‘drugs bust.’ “I’m making sure he’s not going to buy some more. We just searched his place. Intervention. He stormed out.”

The cabbie nodded. “My sister’s the same. Rehab might help, ya know.”

She nodded as though listening, although she was in her own mind, her thought process racing. _It all makes sense now_ , she thought. _A cabbie. Unseen in a crowd. Everyone trusts a cabbie to get them where they wish to go, even though they are complete strangers_.  _This man had the perfect job to become a serial killer_.

Maggie wished now more than ever that she had a mobile. She needed to call John, Lestrade, someone. She sighed. Even if she had a phone, it wouldn’t matter. She didn’t know anyone’s numbers.

The taxis turned left and entered a quieter part of town. She watched the scenery pass by.

“Eh, miss,” the cabbie said. “He’s stopping.”

She leaned forward, looking out the windshield at the tail lights.

“Keep going another block and stop there.”

The other cab pulled off to the side as theirs passed by. Maggie caught Sherlock’s eye as they passed while his cabbie got out. They’d stopped at two seemingly identical buildings.

“Oh, that’s Roland-Kerr Further Education College,” her cabbie said, pulling to a stop. “Maybe he’s trying to go back to school, miss.”

“No, he doesn’t need to,” she murmured, her head turning to keep an eye on where the other cab had stopped. The cabbie was walking in, leaving Sherlock behind. _Run_ , she thought.

He did run. Into the college, after the cabbie.

“ _Dammit_!” she yelled as the cabbie looked back at her.

“What’s wrong, miss?”

“Nothing,” she said, a scowl on her face. _That idiot_. “Here.” She pulled her half of Mycroft’s money out, dropping into the cabbie’s hands.

“Miss, this is too much…” the man began, but it was too late. She’d left her door open as she ran off down the sidewalk, back toward the college.

She ran toward where the entrances were, stopping. The buildings were identical. There was no difference in structure, and she hadn’t seen which one they had entered. But as she examined the doors, she noticed something. On the window of one door, there was a handprint, dissipating in the cold. Someone had pressed their hand to it in the last minute or so, the heat creating a fog on it. She stepped closer and recognised the size of the hand. _Sherlock_. She pushed the door open slowly so not to alert the cabbie to her presence in the building.

Travelling down the halls, she came to a crossroad. She could go forward, or either side direction. She sighed, deciding to go right. She opened a few doors and looked into the windows of ones that were locked, but there was no sign of the two men. Finally she reached a dead end and had to turn around. She turned this way and that, eventually getting a bit lost in the halls. There was still no sign of the men.

She found the staircases and travelled up, searching more halls on the second floor. She saw a clock on the wall. It had been forty-five minutes since she left the flat. Roughly thirty since she’d began searching. She thought of the poison the victims took. _It could already be too late_.

She shook her head, moving the thought away. Just then she heard a voice.

“I’ll have the gun, please.”

She moved forward, recognising the detective’s voice. It was coming from the room just ahead on the left. Reaching its door, she stood on her tiptoes to peek into the window.  Sherlock was sitting at a table in the classroom, facing her. Another man - the cabbie - was sitting across from him, a gun in his hand, pointed at Sherlock’s forehead.

“Are you sure?” the cabbie asked.

Sherlock was looking straight at the cabbie’s face. He hadn’t noticed Maggie in the window yet. He smirked. “Definitely,” he said. “The gun.”

Maggie covered her mouth to keep from shouting out. _What the hell are you doing, Sherlock_?

“Don’t want to phone a friend?”

“The _gun_ ,” Sherlock said forcefully.

Maggie couldn’t see the cabbie’s face, but as she watched, his finger began to squeeze the trigger.

“ _No_!” she yelled, bursting into the classroom.

The man turned in shock, his hand tightening on the gun. His finger squeezed the trigger all the way to it’s click, and a small flame burst from the barrel. It was a _lighter_.

Sherlock didn’t even look up at Maggie, who was standing in disbelief. From the window, the gun had looked real, but closer, she could tell. The plastic. She closed her eyes in aggravation.

“I know a real gun when I see one,” Sherlock said.

“Who is this?” the cabbie asked.

“She’s with me,” Sherlock answered, standing and straightening his jacket, buttoning the front. “Well, this has been _very_ interesting. I look forward to the court case.” He began walking toward Maggie. The cabbie put the gun down and turned in his seat.

“Just before you go, did you figure it out? Which one’s the good bottle?”

Sherlock froze at the door, his hand on Maggie’s arm as he had just began to pull her with him.

“Of course,” he said. “Child’s play.”

“Well, which one then?”

Sherlock pushed the door open a bit, but Maggie saw no sign he was actually going to leave the room. He wouldn’t look at the cabbie, but was gnawing his lip again. He glanced to her, and she begged him with her eyes to just _go_.

“Which one would you ’ave picked?” the cabbie asked. “Just so I know whether I could have beaten you.”

Sherlock let the door shut, but still didn’t look the cabbie’s direction. Maggie’s eyes squeezed shut. This cabbie was trying to lure Sherlock back in, and it was working. The cabbie chuckled.

“Come on. Play the game.”

Sherlock let go of her arm and slowly walked back toward the cabbie.

“I you lose, the girlie there can still take me right to the police. I won’t fight ‘er.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed at the man, but he said nothing. He reached the table and swiped up the bottle nearest the cabbie, then walked past him. The cabbie looked at the other bottle.

“Oh,” he said. “Interesting.” His voice gave away nothing. He picked up the other bottle as Sherlock began examining his own.

“Don’t do it, Sherlock,” Maggie said.

“Be quiet,” Sherlock said. “I’ve got him beat.”

The cabbie said nothing, opening his bottle and tipping it, letting the capsule inside fall into his hand. He held it up and looked at it closely.

“What d’you think, Mr. ‘olmes?” he asked, looking at Sherlock. “Shall we?”

Sherlock gave him a dark look before looking back to his bottle.

“Can you beat me?” the cabbie asked, standing up. “Are you clever enough to bet your life?” He held his pill up to his mouth. “I bet you get bored don’t you? A man like you, so clever.”

Sherlock twisted the lid of his bottle and shook out the capsule, examining the pill in the light for a few moments.

“But what’s the point of being clever if you can’t prove it?” the cabbie asked, watching Sherlock. “Still the addict, you are. But this… _This_ is what you’re really addicted to, innit?”

Maggie was watching with horror as Sherlock began to raise the pill to his mouth, his fingers trembling.

“You’d do anything, anything at all to stop being bored. You’re not bored now, are you?”

Each man’s hands got closer to their mouths. Maggie couldn’t take it.

“ _STOP_!” she yelled. It wouldn’t have mattered if she hadn’t said anything anyway, however.  

A gunshot rang through the air. Maggie watched in slow motion as the cabbie’s body jerked and a bullet came through his back, impacting the door only a few inches from her head, close enough to make her hair move. The cabbie fell, and Sherlock dropped is pill in surprise. Maggie dropped to her knees in shock. as Sherlock turned and slid over the desk behind him to look through the window where the bullet had come through. After looking through the bullet hole in the glass, Sherlock straightened. The cabbie’s heavy breathing could be heard, along with him coughing. Sherlock turned back, looking to Maggie, who was still sitting there. He saw one of the pills on the table and snatched it up, kneeling over the cabbie.

“Was I right?” Sherlock asked. “I was, wasn’t I?” No answer. “ _Did I get it right_?”

The cabbie still didn’t answer. Sherlock angrily threw the pill across the room, standing up. “Okay, Sherlock said. “tell me this. Your sponsor. Who was it? The one who told you about me - my ‘fan’. I want a name.”

Maggie looked up as the cabbie weakly muttered a “No.”

Sherlock’s face contorted in anger. “You’re dying, but there’s still time to hurt you,” he threatened. “ _Give me a name_.”

The cabbie shook his head. Sherlock lifted his foot and set it onto the dying man’s shoulder. The man gasped in pain. Maggie stared in horror. What was Sherlock _doing_?

“A _name_ ,” Sherlock said. “ _Now_.”

The man only whined in pain.

“Sherlock, please,” Maggie said. “Stop.”

Sherlock didn’t look at her. He leaned some of his weight onto the man’s shoulder.

“The _NAME_!” he yelled.

The man let out an agonised cry. “ _MORIARTY_!”

Sherlock stepped back off his shoulder. The man’s head rolled to the side and he stilled. Sherlock stared down at him, mouthing the word. ‘Moriarty’. He turned from the body, freezing when he saw Maggie sitting there.

“Dear God,” he said. “I forgot you were there.”

She looked up at him.

“You shouldn’t have seen that,” he murmured.

She shook her head, as if to say, _No, I shouldn’t have_.

“I’m sorry,” he said, walking over and helping her up. She took his hand appreciatively.

“You know why, don’t you?” he asked. “Why I had to do that?”

She shook her head again.

“There’s someone sponsoring criminals. He was doing it for this man. I needed the name,” he said, “so I can stop him.”

She stared at him in shock. Who would _sponsor_ criminal activity? She closed her eyes for a moment, taking in the information. “Moriarty,” she whispered.

“Do you know anything about it?”

She shook her head. “No, I don’t.”

Sherlock nodded, obviously thinking.

“Come on,” she said, turning to leave the room after glancing at the body still lying there.  Sherlock looked at the bullet lodged in the door, squinting at it before following her.

 


	12. Case Closed

Later, outside the college, the police had arrived with an ambulance and quite a few squad cars. Sherlock and Maggie were sitting on the back of the ambulance. She had since recovered from the sight of Sherlock torturing the dying man, and he had explained the entirety of the situation to her. _Moriarty_ , she thought. _Seems interesting_. A paramedic put an orange blanket on Sherlock’s shoulders, walking away as Lestrade approached. Maggie had her own blanket clutched around herself.

“Why have I got this blanket?” Sherlock asked Lestrade as he reached them. “They keep putting this blanket on me.”

“Yeah, it’s for shock,” Lestrade answered, nodding at them both.

“I’m not in shock,” Sherlock said, obviously aggravated.

Lestrade grinned. “Yeah, but some of the guys wanna take photographs.”

Maggie smiled a bit at that.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “So,” he said. “The shooter. No sign?”

Lestrade shook his head. “Cleared off before we got here. But a guy like that would have enemies, I suppose. One of them could have been following him, but nothing to go on.” He shrugged.

Sherlock gave him a pointed look. “Oh, I wouldn’t say that.”

It was Lestrade’s turn to roll his eyes. “Okay, gimme what you got.”

Sherlock stood up. “The bullet they just dug out of the wall’s from a handgun.  Kill shot over that distance from that kind of weapon - that’s a crack shot you’re looking for. Not just a marksman: a fighter. His hands couldn’t have shaken at all,” he said, demonstrating a shaking hand at Lestrade as if he didn’t know what it looked like, “so clearly he’s acclimatised to violence. He didn’t fire until I was in immediate danger, though, and made sure to miss Maggie,” he said, nodding in her direction, “so strong moral principle.”

Maggie looked off over the police tape and her eyes widened. She got up and nudged Sherlock.

“You’re looking for a man probably with  history of military service,” he said as he turned to see what she wanted. She nodded in John’s direction. “Nerves of steel…” he trailed off as he saw John there. John looked back at them for a moment, his face showing nothing, before he turned his head away. Lestrade began to follow their gaze and Sherlock turned to stop him before he could see the man and start asking questions.

“Actually, you know what?” he said, stepping into the man’s line of sight. “Ignore me.”

“Sorry?” Lestrade asked.

“Ignore all of that. It’s just the… the shock talking.”

He turned and grabbed Maggie’s arm, beginning to walk toward John.

“Where’re you going?” Lestrade said, walking after them.

“I just need to talk about the rent,” Sherlock said, never breaking his eyes away from John’s form.

“But I’ve still got questions for you!”

Sherlock turned back to him in obvious irritation. “Oh, what _now_? I’m in shock!” he said. “Look, I’ve got a blanket!” He shook the corner of the blanket at Lestrade as if to prove it.

“Sherlock!” Lestrade said, beginning to interrupt.

“ _And_ I just caught you a serial killer… more or less.”

Lestrade looked at him for a long moment.

“Okay. We’ll bring you in tomorrow. Off you go.”

Sherlock walked away, once again pulling Maggie along. He took the orange blanket from his shoulders, bundling it up and taking hers as well. She shivered in the cold from the loss, snatching it back. He looked at her, a bit shocked, and then looked down.

“Are you barefoot?” he asked.

She looked at her feet, which were indeed bare. She didn’t have socks on in the flat, and didn’t bother with shoes when she ran out. And why was she so cold? She looked up and noticed her coat was gone. She knew she had taken it with her. But she’d taken it off in the taxi, and left it when she’d ran from the car outside the college. Her coat…

“I guess I forgot shoes. And my coat’s back in the taxi… It’s gone.”

He smiled a bit at her. “We’ll get you a new one.”

“I want the old one.”

He frowned, not answering that. He bundled up the blanket and threw it into the open window of a nearby police car, ducking under the tape just past it. She followed, catching up to him as he reached John

“Sergeant Donovan’s been explaining everything,” John said to them. “Two pills? Been a dreadful business, hasn’t it? Dreadful.”

They both looked at him for a long moment. Maggie leaned forward.

“Good shot,” she said quietly.

John tried, and failed, to look innocent. “Er, yes. Yes, must have been, through that window.”

“Well, _you’d_ know,” Sherlock said. John was still trying not to show anything in his expression, but utterly failed under the two geniuses calculated gaze.

“We need to get the powder burns off your fingers,” Maggie said.

“Sherlock nodded. “I don’t suppose you’d serve time for this, but let’s do avoid the court case.”

John cleared his throat and looked around a bit.

“Are you alright?” Sherlock asked.

“Yes,” John said. “Of course I’m alright.”

“Well, you _have_ just killed a man,” Maggie said.

“Yes, I…” he trailed off for a bit. “That’s true, isn’t it?” He smiled a bit. Sherlock and Maggie watched him closely. “But he wasn’t a very _nice_ man.”

Maggie and Sherlock nodded in agreement. “No, no he wasn’t really, was he?”

“And frankly, he was a bloody awful cabbie,” Maggie said.

Sherlock chuckled as the trio began to walk away.

“True. Should’ve seen the route he took us to get here,” he said, still chuckling a bit.

John giggled at that.

“I _did_ ,” she said, laughing as well. Sherlock chuckled some more at that.

“Stop! Stop!” John said between laughs. “We can’t giggle, it’s a crime scene! Stop it!” he said, nudging them both.

“You’re the one that shot him,” Sherlock said.

“Don’t blame us,” Maggie finished, still giggling.

“Keep your voice down!” John said, still smiling. The group was walking past Sergeant Donovan. “Sorry,” he said, trying to hide his smile. “It’s just, um, nerves. I think.”

“Sorry,” Sherlock and Maggie said at the same time.

John cleared his throat as they walked away.

“You were gonna take that damn pill, weren’t you?” he asked, looking at Sherlock.

“Course I wasn’t,” Sherlock answered. “I was biding my time. Knew you’d turn up.”

“No you didn’t,” Maggie said, cutting John off as he opened his mouth to speak. “It’s how you get your kicks, isn’t it? You risk your life to prove that you’re clever.”

“Why would I do that?” he asked.

“Because you’re an idiot,” she and John said.

Sherlock stopped and smiled for just a moment before forcing it down. “Dinner?” he asked them both.

“Starving,” John answered. They looked at Maggie.

“Why not? she said, shrugging.

They began walking once more as Sherlock began talking. “End of Baker Street,” he said, “there’s a good Chinese that stays open ‘til two. You can always tell a good Chinese by examining the bottom third of the door handle.” As he finished speaking, a black car pulled up a few yards ahead, a man stepping out. Mycroft. Sherlock and Maggie continued walking, but John stopped them and stared.

“Sherlock,” he said. “That’s him. That’s the man I was talking to you about.”

Sherlock looked at the man, and Maggie caught his playful smile just a moment before he turned his face serious. _That’s right_ , she thought. _We never explained to John…_

“I know _exactly_ who that is,” Sherlock said in a grave tone, walking forward to the man. He stopped just before the man, looking at him angrily.

“So, another case cracked,” Mycroft said pleasantly. “How very public spirited… Though, that’s never really your motivation, is it?”

“What are you doing here?: Sherlock asked.

“As ever, I am _concerned_ about you.”

“Yes, I’ve been hearing about your ‘concern’.”

Mycroft tutted at him. “Always so aggressive. Did it ever occur to you that you and I belong on the same side?”

“Oddly enough, _no_.”

Maggie smiled at that.

“We have more in common than you like to believe. This petty feud between us is simply childish. People will suffer… And you you know how it always upset Mummy.”

Maggie looked at John, who frowned, unsure of what he just heard. He looked at her and she smiled at him.

“ _I_ upset her?” Sherlock asked in disbelief. “ _Me_?” The man glowered at Sherlock. “It wasn’t _me_ that upset her, Mycroft.”

John cut in. “No, wait. Mummy - Who’s Mummy?”

“Mother,” Sherlock answered. “Our mother. This is my brother, Mycroft. Putting on weight again?” he asked his sibling.

“Losing it, in fact,” Mycroft answered.

“He’s your _brother_?” John asked.

“Of course he’s my brother.”

“So he’s not…” he trailed off.

“Not what?” Sherlock asked as he and his brother looked at John.

John shrugged. “I dunno… Criminal mastermind?”

Sherlock looked at Mycroft. “Close enough,” he said.

“For God’s sake,” Mycroft said, obviously having heard this before. “I occupy a minor position in the British government.”

“He _is_ the British government,” Sherlock clarified. “When he’s not too busy being the British Secret service or the CIA on a freelance basis.” The sibling sighed. “Good evening, Mycroft,” Sherlock called, beginning to walk away. “Try not to start a war before I get home, you know what it does to the traffic.”

John looked at Mycroft. “So, when you say you’re concerned about him, you actually _are_ concerned?”

“Yes, of course,” Mycroft answered.

“I mean, it really is a childish feud?” John asked.

Mycroft was watching his brother go. “He’s always been so resentful. You can imagine the Christmas dinners.”

John nodded. “Yeah…” then, seeming to realize what he said, he corrected himself. “No, actually. God, no.” He half way turned back to walk after Sherlock. “I’d better, um…” He turned to Anthea, who had been standing there the whole time, typing on her phone. “Hello again.”

Maggie rolled her eyes at his obvious and terrible attempt to flirt.

She looked up, smiling brightly at him, never ceasing her typing. “Hello.”

“Yes, um,” he said. “We met earlier on this evening.”

She stared at him, obviously not remembering, though she reacted, pretending that she did.

“ _Oh_!” She exclaimed, her voice making her lack of memory obvious.

“Okay, good night,” John said flatly, turning away and walking after Sherlock.

“Night!” Maggie said happily, waving at Anthea who smiled and waved back before looking back to her phone. Maggie turned and followed John.

“Goodnight, Doctor Watson, Miss Archer,” Mycroft called.

John and Maggie caught up to Sherlock and walked beside him.

“So,” Maggie said. “Dim sum.”

“Mmm!” Sherlock said. “I can always predict the fortune cookies.”

“No you can’t,” she said.

“Almost can,” he answered. He turned to John. “You did get shot, though.”

“Sorry?” John asked.

“In Afghanistan. There was an actual wound,” Sherlock clarified.

“Oh,” John said. “Yeah. Shoulder.”

“Shoulder!” Maggie said. “I thought so.”

“No you didn’t,” John said.

“The left one,” Sherlock said, smirking.

“Lucky guess.”

“I never guess,” Sherlock told him.

John laughed. “Yes you do.” He looked at Sherlock, who was smiling. “What are you so happy about?” he asked.

“Moriarty,” Sherlock answered.

“What’s Moriarty?”

“I have absolutely _no_ idea,” Sherlock said cheerfully.

Back at the car, Anthea turned to Mycroft, who was still watching the trio walk away.

“Sir, shall we go?”

Mycroft ignored her question. “Interesting, that soldier fellow and homeless girl.” Anthea looked up at the group briefly before turning her attention back to her phone. “They could be the making of my brother,” he continued, “or make him worse than ever. Either way, we’d better upgrade their surveillance status. Grade Three. Active.”

Anthe looked up from her phone. “Sorry, sir. Whose status?”

**“Sherlock Holmes, Doctor Watson, and Margaret Archer.”**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my gosh! I can't believe I've finished A Study In Pink! Thank you guys so much for all the reads, kudos, and bookmarks. I'm afraid I'll have to take a bit of a writing hiatus, but it's just until Wednesday, I promise! Then, I start fresj with Blind Banker. See you all then!


	13. The Coat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a short chapter I was able to write up quickly tonight. Just a short filler, before Blind Banker starts. I love you all!

After Chinese, the group returned to the flat, utterly exhausted. Maggie was still barefoot, although no one in the restaurant had seemed to notice because of the long table cloth that sat over their dining table. It was almost two in the morning, and all Maggie wanted was some sleep. John went up the stairs first, her following soon after and Sherlock in the back. They hadn’t made it halfway up the first set of stairs when a knock hit the door.

“That’s for you,” Sherlock said, nudging around her on the stairwell. She looked at him curiously only to see him wink at her before turning and hurrying the rest of the way up the stairs after John. She sighed, turning to go back down the stairs. Another knock sounded.

“I’m coming,” she called, reaching for the handle. She opened the door to find a stout man, about her height, with dark hair and eyes. He was holding her patched up coat, folded over his arm as a butler would hold a table napkin.

“Sherlock said this was yours,” the man said, holding out the coat. She reached out and took it.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

“No problem. I owed Sherlock a favour anyway. Helped my brother off a robbery charge. It was left in one of my cabbies’ cars,” he explained. “He remembered you quite well. Asked me to see if I could get your number for him.” He gave her a smirk.

She gave a polite smile. “I don’t have a mobile,” she said.

“He thought you might say that,” the man said. “So he told me to give ya this.” He held out a small card. “Said whenever you need a ride somewhere, just call ‘im up.”

She chuckled, seeing the phone number and name scrawled on the card. _David_. “Thank him for me,” she said.

“I will, miss.”

She nodded a goodbye at the man and slowly shut the door, staring down at the coat. Sherlock had left their table at the Chinese for awhile, texting quite a bit, but she never expected _this_. Contacting the cab company to find her coat?

She turned and hung the coat on the peg near the door, travelling up the stairs while staring at the card with the cabbie’s mobile number. She entered the flat to find Sherlock testing a few strings on his violin and John sitting watching the telly. Sherlock looked up at her as she entered.

“Thank you,” she said quietly.

“It was nothing, really. You said you wanted your old coat, and the cab company’s owner owed me a favor. I got his brother -”

“Off a robbery charge, he told me,” she said, smiling a bit. “It was still very nice of you, Sherlock. Thank you.”

He nodded. “What’s that?” he asked, gesturing to the card in her hand.

“The cabbie that drove me to the college. He had that man deliver me his number. I think he wants me to call him up.”

Sherlock frowned, setting his violin to the side and standing up. He walked over and plucked the number from her hand, walking to the kitchen.

“Oi!” she yelled. “What are you _doing_?”

She followed to find him turning on a small bunsen burner, using a pair of tongs to burn the card and throw it into the sink.

“What did you do that for?” she yelled, looking at the blackened mush in the sink.

Sherlock set down the tongs and shut off the burner, turning her direction.

“I think we’ve had enough obsessive cabbies in our lives,” he said, his face serious.

She stared at him in shock for a second before beginning to laugh.

John, who had been watching from the living room, also apparently found it funny, beginning to laugh as well. Sherlock even joined in for a bit.

When the laughter died down, Maggie sighed, stretching her arms.

“My room is still yours, for the time being,” Sherlock said.

Maggie nodded, knowing he wouldn’t have offered if he was going to sleep that night. “I’m going to turn in, then,” she said. “Goodnight!” she called, padding toward the back room.

“‘Night!” John called after her, looking back to the telly. Sherlock didn’t say anything, though he did glance over his shoulder as she shut the door, before turning back and cleaning the ashes from the sink.

Maggie crawled into the comfortable bed, curling up while clutching a pillow. She knew she should have been much angrier at Sherlock for burning the paper, but it didn’t really matter. It wasn’t like she hadn’t memorized the number anyway.


	14. Sentiment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the next chapter!! So, The Blind Banker begins! Thank you all so much for reading! School is winding down, so I should be able to get chapters out quicker, especially after this week, when all my end of course exams are done. Love you all!

There were roughly two weeks spent just settling into the flat. Maggie felt uncomfortable there at first, like a squatter. She had, after all, literally passed out on their doorstep. She didn’t have money to pay rent, or any utilities for that matter, and spent most of the first few days travelling around the city with John as he too tried to find a job. On the first day they returned from job hunting, they found Sherlock sitting on his heels in the seat of his armchair, his hands steepled in front of his mouth and his eyes closed. He opened his eyes when they entered and jumped up from the seat.

“Maggie, come with me,” he said, striding into the kitchen.

She gave John a confused look. He shrugged, turning to lay out the take-out they’d brought home on the coffee table.

She turned and slowly followed Sherlock’s path around the corner, finding that he had vacated the kitchen, but his bedroom door was open. He was standing in the doorway, looking at her expectantly. She gave him a confused look as she approached, but he did not explain, and kept his face serious. He stepped back as she entered the room, and suddenly his reasoning for taking her back there was obvious.

On his bed was box after long clothing box, all obviously bought that day, and judging from the names on the boxes, all very expensive.

“You-”

“I bought it, yes,” he said, cutting her off.

She took the box closest to her, opening it slowly. Inside was a deep purple women’s button up. She ran her fingers over the material and checked the tag.

“How did you know my size?” she asked, turning to look at him.

“I looked at the clothes you changed out of when you took mine last night,” he said.

She looked over to the dresser, where her old clothing was neatly folded, though she had left it over the bedpost the night before.

“Ah,” she said, looking back at the tag. _Egyptian cotton_. “Sherlock, this is too expensive.”

“Ridiculous,” he said with a smirk. “You needed clothing. You can’t borrow mine forever, and Mrs. Hudson’s… don’t suit you.”

She looked down at the brown trousers and flowery blouse Mrs. Hudson had loaned her for the day.

“While that may be true,” she said, closing the clothing box and looking back at him, “you could have gotten anything. This is too much.”

“Not really. Didn’t even leave a dent in my finances, and you can always pay me back later.”

She gave him a confused look. “Didn’t leave a dent? You had to get a flatshare, John told me that today. You couldn’t afford the rent, and it looks like all of this,” she gestured to the boxes, “probably cost you over two months of that rent.”

Sherlock began toward the door. “I didn’t need a flatshare. John did.”

“Then why have someone move in with you if you could pay for it yourself?”

He stopped halfway out the door, pausing there for a moment. “Because the flat felt empty,” he said. “And I need to say my thoughts aloud to someone.” He turned his head, giving her a smirk. “The skull would’ve done fine, but Mrs. Hudson confiscates it whenever I leave the flat.” With that, he entered the hall, closing the door behind him. “Don’t worry about the clothes,” he said, before he shut it completely. “Try some of them on. I can take any back that you aren’t pleased with.”

The door clicked shut, and she sighed, turning back to the bed of clothing. She reached for the box that held the purple shirt, and the door opened again.

“Oh, and there’s a box with a mobile for you on the dresser,” Sherlock said. “The number’s active.”

She turned her head, smiling at him. “Thanks.”

The door shut once again.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A few weeks later, Maggie still hadn’t found a job, and neither had John. At the moment, they were in a supermarket, trying to get the self-service checkout machine to work. John scanned an item, and she took it from him, putting it onto a bag.

“Unexpected item in bagging area. Please scan again,” an automated female voice said from the machine.

Maggie sighed, handing the item back to John. He scanned the lettuce bag again, slowly this time.

“Item not scanned,” the voice said. “Please try again.”

John let out an exasperated breath, looking at the line that had formed behind them. “Do you think you could you keep your voice down?” he asked the machine.

There was no response. Obviously.

This went on for about another ten minutes, scanning and rescanning items, the line behind them growing more impatient with every “Please try again,” the machine let out.

When everything was finally done, John reached into his back pocket, pulling out his wallet and sliding out his credit card. He inserted it into the chip-and-PIN machine before typing in his code.

After a moment, the machine let out another alert.

“Card not authorized,” it said. “Please use an alternative method of payment.”

It repeated the phrase.

“Yes, all right,” John said. “I’ve got it!”

The man behind them in line had already raised his basket in expectation of getting the scanner soon. Maggie gave him an apologetic look.

John reached back for his wallet and stopped. The look on his face told Maggie he had no other way of paying for the groceries.

“Got nothing,” he muttered. Closing his eyes in irritation for a moment, he brought his hand back around, pointing at the machine. “Just keep that,” he said angrily, turning and stomping away. The man behind them in the queue looked to Maggie in surprise, and she shrugged sadly, turning to follow John and leaving their groceries behind.

The shop was just round the corner from the flat, so they walked back. Maggie shrank into her coat in the cold, her hands shoved into her pockets.

“You left your card in the machine,” she said.

“It’s useless anyway,” John replied.

She didn’t say anything else. John unlocked the door when they arrived and they both removed their coats, hanging them on the peg just inside. John hurried up the stairs, Maggie following behind at a more leisurely pace. _He’s gotten much quicker since he lost the cane_ , she thought with a smirk as she reached the top step and approached the door to 221B.

Sherlock was sitting in his armchair, reading, inside, and John stood just inside the door, looking around.

“You took your time,” Sherlock said, not looking up from his book.

“Yeah, we didn’t get the shopping,” Maggie said, entering the room and falling onto the couch.

Sherlock looked over the top of the book. “What? Why?”

“Because I had a row, in the shop,” John said, annoyance clear in his voice, “with a chip-and-PIN machine.”

Sherlock’s book lowered. “You… you had a row with a _machine_?”

“Sort of,” Maggie answered. “He sat there and shouted abuse.”

Sherlock chuckled a bit, and John shook his head.

“Have you got cash?” he asked.

Sherlock lifted his book, barely containing his amused smile as he nodded toward the kitchen. “Take my card,” he said.

John began toward the kitchen, but just before picking up the wallet lying on the table, he turned back to Sherlock.

“You _could_ always go get it yourself, you know,” he said to his flatmate. “You’ve been sitting there all morning. “You haven’t moved since we left!”

Sherlock’s eyes darted to the left for a moment as he thought back to something. The look of remembrance disappeared quickly however, replaced by a nonchalant look as he turned a page of his book.

Without an answer, John sighed and snatched up the wallet, opening it to find a card he could use.

“What happened about that case you were offered?” Maggie asked. “The Jaria Diamond?”

“Not interested,” he said, turning the corner of the page he was reading to mark it. He snapped the book shut and leaned forward, his foot bumping against a curved sword haphazardly - and poorly - hidden under the chair. His eyes darted to Maggie, who looked at the sword with obvious interest. He gave her a look that told her not to say anything before putting his foot on it and sliding it further out of sight. “I sent them a message,” he said firmly, looking back to John.

John finally found a card, but paused as he replaced the wallet on the table, looking at a long scratch in the wooden surface. He rubbed at it for a moment, as if it were a mark that could be removed that easily.

“Holmes,” he whispered in exasperation. He tutted and looked at Sherlock, who returned the look as innocently as he could. John left the kitchen through the door to the hall, looking to Maggie who was still on the couch. “You coming?” he asked.

She thought for a moment before shaking her head. “Unless you need my help,” she said.

He shook his head. “Nah, I can handle it,” he said, turning and trotting quickly down the stairs.

She stood, making sure he had gone, before striding over to sit in John’s chair across from Sherlock.

“Explain,” she said.

He smirked at her. “Why don’t you make a deduction?” he asked.

She grinned at him, then looked around the flat.

“Well…” she said.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Some time later, John was staggering up the stairs carrying several shopping bags.

“Don’t worry ‘bout me,” he called sarcastically. “I can manage.”

Maggie shot up from where she had been reading on the couch and hurried down the stairs to meet him halfway, taking many of the bags from him. “I thought you said you could handle it!” she said.

He rolled his eyes. “Thought I could,” he said. “Shoulder.”

She nodded understandingly, taking her bags and hurrying upstairs. She entered the kitchen, noting where Sherlock was sitting at the dining table in the living room with his hands folded in front of his mouth, reading his e-mails on a laptop. He barely glanced up as the two dropped the groceries onto the kitchen table. Maggie began putting things away as John rounded the table to look at what Sherlock was doing.

“Is that my computer?” he asked.

Sherlock began typing. “Of course.”

“ _What_?”

Maggie shut a cabinet and grabbed another bag before rounding to the fridge to put away the cold items.

“Mine was in the bedroom,” Sherlock said.

“And what, you couldn’t be bothered to _get up_?” John asked indignantly. “It’s password protected!”

“In a manner of speaking,” Sherlock said, never ceasing his typing.

“It took him less than a minute to guess it,” Maggie said, shutting the fridge and rounding to get another bag of groceries.

Sherlock gave John a look. “Not exactly Fort Knox,” he said, turning back.

“Right, _thank you_ ,” John said, reaching over and slamming the lid of the computer shut. Sherlock barely pulled his fingers away in time. John took the laptop and sat it on the floor next to his armchair as he sat down. He picked up the pile of letters on the table next to him and flicked through them. Maggie glanced over as she put the last item away, noticing that at least one was bill with red lettering.

“Oh,” John said quietly, shaking his head. “I need to find a job.”

“ _Dull_ ,” Sherlock called from his chair, looking deep in thought.

Maggie entered the living room and sat in Sherlock’s chair, pulling her feet up underneath her. John dropped the letters back onto the table and looked at Sherlock, biting his lip. Glancing back at the letters, he sat forward awkwardly in his chair, clasping his hands together.

“Listen,” he said, looking to Sherlock. “Um… If you’d be able to lend me some…” he trailed off, noticing that Sherlock was lost in his own world. “Sherlock, are you listening?” he asked with irritation.

Sherlock never even looked up at him. “I need to go to the bank,” he said. He jumped up and went toward the stairs, taking his coat from the peg and throwing it on.  Maggie and John looked at each other, frowning. Sherlock hurried down the stairs, and they both jumped up to follow him.

At the door downstairs, Maggie grabbed her own coat. Sherlock frowned at her as she put her arms through it, tying his scarf on.

“Where’s the coat I got you?” he asked.

She grimaced a bit, thinking back to the dark red coat she had found in one of the boxes, quite resembling his own other than the color.

“I have my own coat is all,” she said. “Don’t need a new one.”

As the group walked out the door, Sherlock gave her coat a once over.

“Patched in multiple places, wearing out in many others,” he said. “That coat won’t last you much longer, unless you plan to patch it many more times.”

She grit her teeth. “I don’t plan to. I told you already, I don't want a new coat. You may as well take the other back."

He smirked. “I see,” he said quietly.

“What?” she asked.

“Sentiment,” he answered, turning away to hail a cab.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you guys are liking this so far. Please, please, please give me some feedback. Not just kudos, but comments as well. Tell me what you like, what you don't, and what I can improve.  
> \---  
> On another note, a friend of mine is working on a fanfiction as well, and asked if I would give her a promo. Please read what she's written. She did have seven chapters, but recently decided to edit. After extensive work, she's re-posted the prologue to her story, and she and I would be very grateful if you gave her some reads and feedback!  
> Here's the link:  
> http://archiveofourown.org/works/1605971/chapters/3418838  
> \---  
> Love you all!!


	15. Sebastian From Uni

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> SOOOOOOOO sorry this too so long. I've had FAR too many finals and assignments for the last few weeks of school. Her ya go!

The cab stopped outside Tower 42, Broad Street, and Sherlock paid the cabbie before exiting after Maggie and John, who looked around. The building before them seemed to be made of windows, and reached many, many floors up. Sherlock walked toward it purposefully, and they followed quickly after him. As they entered the place through revolving glass doors, Maggie looked at the writing on the pane nearby.

“Shad Sanderson Bank,” she said to herself.

“What was that?” John asked.

“Nothing,” she answered as they exited the revolving door. Maggie smiled to herself as she remembered the first time she met a revolving door. She was nine. It had been on a bank much like this one, where her dad had worked. The building was grand, and some beggars were outside, shaking their cups and asking for any change a passerby might have. Her father had to force her to leave the door, as she had been walking in never-ending circles. He’d thought she’d been lost, unable to understand how the entryway worked, when in reality she had been studying the people on the outside, and how the people on the inside acted differently. She watched on man enter, and didn’t miss the way his shoulders set themselves and he stood up a little straighter. Another left and seemed to deflate a bit, relaxing, although he was still too proud to give even a bit of change to the man next to him.

Her father lost her job that day. He had taken her with him to the bank to help him pack his things from his office. As they left, her father standing proudly even as he carried his box, she was struck by something her dad did. After they had everything packed into their car, he dug into his suit pocket and took out his wallet. He walked over to the beggar by the door, opened the leather object, and handed the man 100 quid, all of the cash he had with him. The man stared at her father for a long moment, gently taking the money as if unsure if the man before him was fooling him. Her father smiled at him, and the man stood and hugged him. Her father hugged the man back, not caring about his suit, or what others around him would think.

She asked her father later, as he began to get sick, why he did it.

“Were I in his situation,” he answered, “I would be extremely grateful for someone who showed that kindness. Were I never shown that generosity, I would begin to hate the world. You can’t hate the world, Margaret,” he said, looking at her. She looked back. He was one of the only people she could look in the eyes, and the only person who could call her by her full name. “It leads to a worse situation than you had when you began hating it.”

He’d died not long after, and she’d been left alone. She tried to follow his advice about not hating the world, but she shut out everyone anyway. She stopped going to work, and lost her job. After the fire, she had nothing left, and saw the truth in his words. When she came to London, she had her mind set on starting over.

 _I did, in a way_ , she thought, looking at Sherlock, who was now leading them up an escalator.

“So, when you said we were going to the bank...” John said, trailing off as he noticed Sherlock wasn’t paying attention. Instead, he was looking all around himself, examining the surrounding area. Maggie followed his gaze to see a man opening a glass door by swiping a key card over a magnetic reader. Maggie’s eyebrows furrowed together. Why was Sherlock concerned with the security systems?

They reached the top of the escalator, and Sherlock continued on toward the receptionist desk without missing a beat, approaching the woman sitting there with his two companions following right behind. When the woman looked up he leaned down, murmuring “Sherlock Holmes.”

She nodded at him, picking up the phone and dialing someone to notify them of the new arrival. Maggie and John looked at each other shortly, but didn’t say anything, or ask Sherlock what they were doing there. They learned after the last time that he wouldn’t really answer. They sat in a few chairs off to the side and waited as Sherlock had a short conversation with the receptionist, who smiled and blushed at him. Maggie looked away from them with a frown, picking up a magazine from the nearby table.

“You okay?” John asked.

She looked up at him. “What? Oh, yeah, I’m…” She trailed off as Sherlock left the desk and came to sit across from them, a smirk on his face. She examined his expression for a short moment before pressing her lips together and looking back to John. “I’m fine.”

Sherlock said nothing, picking up a magazine of his own and flicking through the pages as Maggie looked back to the article she had been scanning before. John looked between them both, sensing the tension before looking away, clasping his hands between his knees and pursing his lips with a sigh.

A short, silent wait later, the receptionist picked up the phone, speaking for a moment before standing.

“Mr. Wilkes will see you now,” she said with a smile. She ushered them over and showed to them to Mr. Wilkes’ office. The man inside rose quickly and approached them, taking Sherlock’s hand in both of his own and shaking it enthusiastically, a grin on his face.

“Sherlock Holmes,” he said, the grin never faltering.

“Sebastian,” Sherlock answered, smiling a bit himself.

“Howdy, buddy,” Sebastian said. “How long’s it been? Eight years since I last clapped eyes on you?”

Sherlock looked back at him, and Maggie barely noticed the dislike he had in his eyes. Without an answer, Sebastian looked over to John and Maggie, who were off to the side, still near the doorway, as if unsure if they should be in on the meeting.

“Um, these are my friends, John Watson and Margaret Arthur,” Sherlock said.

Sebastian’s eyebrows rose a bit, and looked at Sherlock with surprise.

“Friends?” he asked.

John stepped forward. “Colleague,” he corrected, taking Sebastian’s hand and shaking it firmly, as a military man would.

“ _Right_ ,” Sebastian said.

Maggie walked over as well. “Friend,” she said quietly.

The man stopped and looked at her curiously before holding out his hand. She looked at it for a short moment before shaking her head at him, causing him to drop the hand quickly as she walked over to take the seat next to John, who had settled into one of the three armchairs placed on the opposite side of the desk from Sebastian’s chair.

Sebastian threw a brief look to Sherlock before grinning a bit more, although a bit unpleasantly. He scratched his neck a bit as Sherlock’s gaze fell onto the hand.

“Well,” Sebastian said, “grab a pew. Do you need anything?” he asked. “Coffee, water?”

Sherlock shook his head as Maggie and John muttered soft “No”s in turn.

“We’re all sorted here, thanks,” Sebastian said to the receptionist who had been standing in the doorway, waiting to be dismissed. As she left, Sebastian took his seat as Sherlock strode over and settled into the chair next to Maggie, opposite John.

“So, you’re doing well,” Sherlock said. “You’ve been abroad a lot.”

“Well, some.”

“Flying all the way round the world twice in a month?” Sherlock said, raising an eyebrow.

John and Maggie frowned, although Sebastian began laughing, pointing a finger toward the detective.

“Right,” he said. “You’re doing that thing. We were in Uni together,” he explained, looking between John and Maggie. “This guy here had a trick he used to do.”

“It’s not a trick,” Sherlock muttered.

“He could look at you and tell you your whole life story.”

“Yes, we’ve seen him do it,” Maggie said, an aggravated bit sneaking into her words.

Sebastian chuckled. “Put the wind up everybody,” he said. “We hated him,” he said. He was trying to be humorous, but Maggie saw the look on Sherlock’s face as he turned away, making a pained expression.

“You’d come down to breakfast in the Formal hall and this freak would know you’d been shagging the previous night,” Sebastian continued.

“I simply observed,” Sherlock said quietly. Maggie’s lips tightened together. She was taking a great dislike to Sebastian.

“Go on, enlighten me,” Sebastian said, ignoring Sherlock’s words. “Two trips a month, flying all the way around the world - you’re quite right. How could you tell?”

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but before he could, Sebastian continued speaking, a smug tone in his voice. “You’re gonna tell me there was a stain on my tie from some special kind of ketchup you can only buy in Manhattan?”

“No, I -”

“Maybe it was the mud on my shoes!” Sebastian said, speaking over him as he grinned at John and Maggie. John didn’t look at him, although Maggie gave him a half-glare. She didn’t like this man teasing Sherlock. _He was only does it because he knows Sherlock is smarter_ , she reminded herself. In a way, his doing this was only him acknowledging the fact that he was inferior.

Sherlock, meanwhile, was not reacting.  He simply looked at Sebastian, raising his eyebrows as if to say _are you done now_? He pursed his lips before he spoke.

“I was chatting with your secretary outside. She told me.”

John rounded on him, frowning and obviously confused by the rather ordinary explanation. Maggie simply rolled her eyes. Sebastian began laughing, but there was really no humor in it, and Sherlock shot him back a smile, lacking humor as well. The laughing cut off abruptly as Sebastian clapped his hands together and clasped them.

“I’m glad you could make it over,” he said, his face and voice suddenly very serious. “We’ve had a break in.”

He stood, ushering them to follow him. As they walked behind him, he led them across the trading floor toward another door.

“Sir William’s office - the bank’s former Chairman,” he said as he walked. “The room’s been left here like a sort of memorial. Someone broke in late last night.”

“What did they steal?” Maggie asked.

“Nothing,” Sebastian said, his face turning grim as they reached the door. “Just left a little message.”

He held a security card against the reader by the door and the light on the reader turned from red to green, indicating it was now unlocked. As he opened the door, the message was extremely clear. Hanging on the wall behind a grand desk was a large framed portrait. Maggie examined further to find that it was of a round man in a suit - presumably Sir William Shad, the late Chairman. On the white wall to the left of the painting was a design in yellow spray paint, much like a graffiti tag. The design looked a bit like the number eight, but the top of the number was left open. Above it was a horizontal line.  Then, on the portrait, there was another horizontal line across Sir William’s eyes. It seemed that the texture of the paper wouldn’t hold the paint well, and the paint ran in small trails down the painting. It may have been that the graffiti artist had oversprayed the line, however.

Sebastian led the way toward the desk, stepping aside to allow Sherlock a clear view of the portrait and graffiti. John stood on the opposite side of Sebastian, and Maggie stood by Sherlock, a bit behind him. Sebastian watched Sherlock expectantly as he and Maggie stared at the wall, fixed on the symbols.

***

Later, the group was back in Sebastian’s office, showing the trio the security footage from the previous night, a camera’s view of the office from the corner opposite the painting and near the doorway.

“Sixty seconds apart,” Sebastian said, flicking through the photo stills taken at, according to the timestamp, 23:34:01, in which the paint was on the wall and portrait, and 23:33:01, when the wall and portrait were untarnished, clean.

“So, someone came up here in the middle of the night, splashed paint around, then left within a _minute_ ,” Maggie murmured. Sebastian nodded, although she wasn’t asking a question.

“How many ways into that office?” Sherlock asked.

Sebastian frowned. “Well, that’s where this gets really interesting.”


	16. Message

Sebastian took the group back to the reception area and excused one of the women. He opened a program on her vacant computer and flicked through some options until he reached a layout of the trading floor and surrounding offices, including Sir William's. Each doorway on the floor was marked by a dark red circle. Maggie examined the screen, realizing the program was a security system, designed to show each door's security statis. She assumed the red lights meant the doors were closed.

Sebastian pointed to a few of these lights. "Every door that opens in this bank gets logged here," he said. "Every walk in cupboard, every toilet."

Sherlock gazed at the screen for a moment. "That door didn't open last night," he murmured.

Sebastian shook his head, straightening up and closing the program. “There’s a hole in our security,” he said. “Find it and we’ll pay you - five figures.”

Maggie’s eyebrows rose at the price as Sebastian reached into the breast pocket of his suit jacket, pulling out a cheque.

“This is an advance,” he said, holding it out between his index and middle fingers. “Tell me how he got in, and there’s a bigger one on the way.”

Maggie fully expected Sherlock to take his cheque, but found him instead grimacing at the object his colleague was offering.

“I _don’t_ need an incentive, Sebastian,” he said with barely - if at all - hidden annoyance. The detective then turned his back, walking quickly away. Maggie and John watched him go, but John suddenly turned back to Sebastian.

“Uh, he’s, uh, he’s kidding you, obviously,” he said to the banker in a quick tone. “Shall-shall I look after that for him?” he asked, holding out a wary hand.

Sebastian, who was still looking off in the direction Sherlock had left in, handed the doctor the cheque without hesitation as Maggie swept off to catch up with the consulting detective.

“Um, thanks,” John said, looking at the figure scrawled on the paper and widened his eyes. “ _Only an advance_?” he hissed to himself.

“What was that?” Sebastian asked.

“Uh, nothing,” he said. “I’ll just, uh…” he trailed off, pointing in the direction the other two had gone.

“Right,” Sebastian said, nodding. As John began to walk away, however, the banker touched his arm. “Who is _that_?” he asked John, nodding in the direction where Sherlock and Maggie were standing by an elevator, the man’s mouth moving to form quick words. No doubt the detective already had a theory, and was telling the girl what he was thinking.

John’s eyebrows furrowed as he followed the executive’s gaze. Maggie didn’t look particularly impressed by whatever Sherlock was telling her, although she _was_ nodding.

“She’s, uh…”

“Not a girlfriend, of course,” Sebastian said. “He’s not that kind of man.” He chuckled as John raised a curious eyebrow, reminded of the conversation Sherlock and himself had in the restaurant on the night of the cabbie. “I don’t think he’s ever had a shag,” Sebastian continued. “But… I’ve never known him to be around a woman at _all_.”

John frowned. “She’s…” he trailed off once again, as if having a hard time finding an answer to the man’s question. “I guess… she’s a friend,” he finally said, repeating her previous answer from the office, although his voice was much less convincing.

Still, Sebastian nodded, a strange look in his eyes as he watched the duo enter a opening elevator.

“I should, uh, get back to them,” John murmured awkwardly.

Sebastian blinked, looking back to John. “oh, right,” he said, taking a deep breath. “Go on.”

John hurried, but still missed their elevator.

***

Of course, the genius pair had already returned to Sir William’s office by the time the good doctor arrived there as well. Sherlock was snapping photographs of the graffitied portrait on his mobile phone, and Maggie was looking about the office, examining different objects in the room.

“They keep it spotless, so there’s no dust layer to go on, but nothing seems out of place,” she said, lifting a few things from the desk and replacing them.

“Doesn’t mean he didn’t take anything,” John answered back, joining her examination.

“No,” she began, “this -”

“This wasn’t about thievery,” Sherlock cut in. “This was a message,” he continued, pointing at the paint. “The question is, for whom? And -”

“And how did they get in?” Maggie finished, cutting the detective off. Sherlock gave her a sharp look, as if offended that she had interrupted him, but she simply gave him a dismissive look, turning away to continue her inspection of the area. She looked to the wall opposite the painting, where floor-to-ceiling windows revealed an impressive view of the Swiss Re Tower and the London area surrounding. She smiled a bit and walked over to get a better look. Pulling at the blinds a bit, she made a discovery.

“Oi,” she said. “Sherlock.” Behind the blinds was a glass door to the balcony. The detective hurried over as the girl opened the door and slipped outside, remaining close to the windows behind her. The wind from this height whipped her hair up in dark tendrils around her face as she looked out at the brilliant view before her. She loved seeing these sights, although her legs felt like they were made of water. Sherlock stepped out as well and gave her a curious look, seeing her eyes brighten as they darted this way and that to capture everything, saving it to look at later.

“What?” she asked, noticing his expression.

“...Nothing.” The tall man turned away to lean slightly over the edge of the balcony. Just the sight made Maggie stomach flip a bit. The drop must’ve been at least a hundred feet. She gave the detective a nervous and pleading look.

“Sherlock, could you back up a bit?”

He turned his head, raising an eyebrow at her but not budging from his position. “ _Why_?”

“I don’t much like heights.”

Sherlock looked back. “That constitutes _your_ staying back - maybe even leaving altogether, preferably back through the door, if you don’t mind. Your fear doesn’t constitute any movement by me.”

“Please, Sherlock,” she said quietly.

The detective sighed, stepping back. “Come on,” he said, turning toward the door. Maggie quickly reentered the office where John was waiting, but Sherlock paused in the doorway to look back, biting his lip thoughtfully.

***

Shortly afterwards, John and Maggie were watching Sherlock as he put on a show. On the trading floor, he was ducking behind desks before standing upright to stare intensely at the glass door to the painted banker’s office. He continued this repeatedly, sliding this way and that, hurrying across the floor and scurrying back, all to the bemusement of the surrounding traders.

Maggie knew why he was doing this, but that of course didn’t mean she was going to make a fool of herself by joining him.

Continuing to duck behind desks only to pop up and peer at the door with immense concentration, he danced once more across the floor and twirled around a column.

As the two continued to watch from the sidelines, Maggie edged her way away from John and around the floor, nearing an office. She passed by its door, glancing up to the portrait.

“ _Sherlock_!” she hissed. he had just rounded a column near her and looked up sharply. The woman jerked her head, a clear _get-over-here_ gesture.

“What? What is it?” he asked excitedly as he hurried to her side. She pointed, and he looked, shortly afterwards nudging her out of the way so he could wiggle around a bit in the doorway. The paint over the eyes could just _barely_ be seen, but it was so close…

Sherlock moved into the office and around the desk. Standing directly by the most comfortable looking chair there, he looked once more at the painting. Maggie entered the office.

“Well?”

“This is it. Is there any other place on the floor where it can be seen?” he asked, knowing that she had the other offices while he looked there.

A shaking head answered him, and she came around the desk herself to see what he could see.

Standing there, and in that place only, a person could clearly see the vandalized face of Sir William, the now blinded banker. The yellow slash was completely visible.

Sherlock looked around the office for something, finally heading outside the office, finding the two signs on the nearby wall.

_Hong Kong Desk Head_

_Edward Van Coon_

Maggie and Sherlock shared a look, Maggie smirking at the man before reaching up and sliding the paper bearing the name out of the mounted plastic holder.  She smacked it against her left palm and folded it over before shoving it into her back pocket for safe keeping. With a look, the two agreed that it was time to leave. They had found what they were looking for.

***

Minutes later, the two had collected John - who had been flirting with some secretary, which was to no avail, as the woman ring shaped tan on the ring finger of her left hand, indicating she had removed her wedding ring to create the false pretense of being an unattached woman, as Maggie pointed out - and began to leave the bank. As they descended the escalator, John turned to Sherlock.

“Two trips round the world this month? Could you imagine?”

Sherlock nodded. “I could.”

Maggie frowned. “You didn’t ask his secretary about that; you said that just to irritate him.”

Sherlock smiled, but didn’t respond as John looked between the two with obvious disbelief.

“Wait, no, he did talk to the secretary, though.”

“That was a receptionist, John, and I was asking her about why Sebastian had called me here. His e-mail didn’t say, and I dislike surprises,” Sherlock said, removing his gloves as their descent continued.

“But… then how did you know?”

Maggie smirked. “Did you see his watch?”

“His _watch_?”

“Time was right but the date was wrong,” Sherlock explained. “Said two days ago.”

“He crossed the dateline twice but didn’t alter it,” Maggie continued for him.

John nodded thoughtfully. “But, within a month? How’d you get that part?”

“New Breitling,” Sherlock responded. “Only came out this February.”

John continued to nod. “Okay. So, d’you think we should look around here any longer?”

“Oh, I think we’ve got everything we need to know.”

“Hmm?” John asked.

Maggie nodded in agreement with Sherlock. “That graffiti was a message for someone at the bank working on the trading floors,” she said.

“We find the recipient,” Sherlock continued, “and…” he trailed off purposefully, looking to John.

“They’ll lead us to the person who sent it,” John said, understanding.

Sherlock nodded in affirmation. “Obvious.”

“There’s three hundred people up there,” John said. “Who was it meant for?”

“Pillars,” Maggie said.

“What?”

“Pillars and screens,” she said. “The trading floor’s littered with them. There’s very few places you can see the graffiti from. That narrows the field considerably.”

“And,” Sherlock began, “of course the message was left at precisely eleven thirty four last night. That tells us a lot.”

“Does it?” John asked.

“Traders come into work at all hours,” Sherlock explained as the group entered the revolving doors to exit the building.  “Some trade with Hong Kong in the middle of the night. That message was intended for someone who came in at midnight.”

Maggie reached back, sliding the name card out of her pocket and turned to walk backwards and face the army doctor, brandishing the card at him. “Not many Van Coons in the phonebook,” she said with a confident smile as the other man nodded at her, a faint proud look in his eyes.

Behind her, sherlock’s head snapped up and his hand flew up in the air as he hurried toward the street, spotting his current need.

“ _Taxi_!” he yelled loudly.


	17. A Dead Banker

A taxi ride later, they arrived outside a block of flats, hurrying up the few steps to the bank of door buzzers. Sherlock didn’t pause to press the small white button next to the name plate marked ‘ _Van Coon_.’ He looked up expectantly toward the small lens above the buttons, the security camera. John and Maggie stood nearby. A few moments later, Sherlock looked back to them, a slightly puzzled look on his face, before turning back and pressing the button with a bit more force.

No answer.

Maggie tread closer to the buzzers as John stepped to the sidewalk to look up and down the street.

“So what do we do now?” he asked. “Sit here and wait for him to get back?”

Sherlock’s eyes scanned the buzzers on the wall as he took a step back. He looked upward to the building’s face. After a few moments, he looked back to the buttons and turned to the other two.

“Just moved in,” he said triumphantly.

“What?” John asked.

Maggie’s eyebrows furrowed together as she looked to the buttons and nameplates.

“Oh!” she said excitedly, pointing to the buzzer bank. “The floor above!”

Sherlock nodded with a smile, touching a finger to the white space. “New label.”

On the space was a large, handwritten name.

 _Wintle_.

“They could have just replaced it,” John said, rolling his eyes at their reactions.

Sherlock, pressing the buzzer near the Wintle name, turned his head over his shoulder to look at the soldier.

“No one does that,” he said. “Maggie, come here.”

She stepped up next to him, although skeptical. Shortly afterward a small buzz sounded from the nearby speaker and the lense in the camera swiveled a bit as a voice came over the small intercom.

“Eh, hello?” a woman’s voice asked.

Sherlock turned to the camera with a charming smile, wrapping his arm confidently around Maggie’s waist despite her slight jump from the contact.

“ _Hi_!” he said, his voice different, more… normal, Maggie thought. Not the voice of a sociopath. “Um, we live in the flat just below you,” he continued, “I… I don’t think we’ve met.”

Getting the idea, Maggie joined him as he continued the wide grin at the camera.

“No,” Ms. Wintle said, “Well, I’ve just moved in.”

Sherlock turned to shoot an _I-told-you-so_ look at John as Maggie leaned forward toward the camera lens.

“Well, um, we’ve just locked our keys in the flat,” she said, grimacing a bit.

“Oh, d’you want me to buzz you in?” Ms. Wintle asked with little hesitation.

“Yeah, that’d be great,” Maggie said, her smile widening a bit.

Sherlock turned back quickly. “And can I use your balcony?” he asked.

After a short pause, Ms. Wintle’s voice came through the speaker, a bit startled.

“ _What_?”

***

Walking up the stairs inside, Maggie smirked in Sherlock’s direction. “Good call pulling me in.”

Sherlock frowned. “A woman adds emotional reasoning, and I would look less suspicious with a… um…” the frown deepened.

“Girlfriend?” john asked, seemingly surprised at Sherlock’s loss of vocabulary.

Sherlock cleared his throat. “Let’s get on with this, shall we?”

***

Only minutes later, Sherlock had, presumably, flirted his way into Ms. Wintle’s flat, and John and Maggie stood outside the door to Van Coon’s home on the floor below. Sherlock stood on the balcony and looked over its edge to the ground a few floors below. Luckily, the top floor which he was on had only half length balconies, and Van Coon’s floor held balconies at full width. Climbing over the side of Ms. Wintle’s railing, he dropped rather dramatically onto Van Coon’s floor. he took a last look over the edge of _this_ balcony before turning toward the door that would hopefully allow him entrance to the banker’s flat.

Outside van Coon’s opposite door, in the hall, Maggie turned to John.

“I just had a terrible thought,” she said, pausing. “What if the balcony is locked?”

The two stared at each other for a moment before bursting into a fit of chuckles as they imagined Sherlock stranded on the balcony for an undetermined amount of time before they could either find a way to get him down or resort to calling Lestrade.

Luckily, however, when Sherlock took the glass door’s handle, it turned easily.

Entering the flat, he found himself in a rather elegantly furnished living room, the apartment obviously within the ownership of a wealthy man. The furniture, all white leather and black, shiny tables, held minimum clutter and all the surfaces were spotless, clearly cleaned often. Looking around at everything in the room as he stepped through it, he glanced at a pile of books on one table before disregarding it as unimportant. Walking through the kitchen, he looked at the immaculate work spaces before opening the fridge for a look. Inside, it was stocked with nothing but bottles and bottles of champagne.

As he shut the ice box, Maggie rang the buzzer outside the door.

“Sherlock,” John called.

Sherlock ignored the sounds, continuing his examination down the hall.

“Sherlock, are you okay?” Maggie asked through the door.

There was no answer as Sherlock opened the door to the bathroom to glance into it for only a moment before shutting the door again. Moving slowly forward, he tried the door at the end of the hall only to find it locked.

The buzzer sounded again.

“Yeah, any time you feel like letting us in,” John yelled sarcastically.

Sherlock turned sideways and leaned a bit before charging into the door with his shoulder, bursting through it as the door swung on its hinges, bashing into the wall.

Hearing the crash, Maggie beat her fist on the door. “Sherlock!” she shouted.

The detective entered slowly into the room, finding a man in a suit lying flat on his back in bed, his overcoat still on. As Sherlock rounded the bed, it became clear the man was dead, as he had a minute bullet hole in the right temple, and a pistol lay discarded on the floor.

Sherlock’s face turned a deep frown as he reached for his phone.

***

The police arrived shortly later and began taking pictures of the scene. Van Coon’s body lay undisturbed on the bed as a forensic officer dusted for fingerprints on a mirror nearby. Other officers still were in separate parts of the flat, searching for any clues to the apparent suicide.

Sherlock, John and Maggie all stood in the bedroom, which had seemed much larger before the trio and officers had entered it. Though not entirely cramped, the space proved a bit difficult to maneuver in. Sherlock had removed his coat before the police came and was now putting putting on latex gloves. Maggie was as well.

John leaned in toward the woman.

“Do you think he lost a lot of money?” he asked her. “I mean, suicide is pretty common among City boys.”

“We don’t know that it was a suicide,” Sherlock said before Maggie could answer.

“ _Please_ ,” Maggie said back. “We know it _wasn’t_.”

John rolled his eyes. “Oh, come _on_ ,” he said, exasperated. “The door was locked from the inside; The killer would have had to climb down the balcony.”

Maggie started to explain, but Sherlock, who had begun ignoring the, cut her off with his aloud thoughts.

“Been away three days, judging by the laundry,” he said. His companions turned to look at where he was squatting near the bed, examining the contents of a suitcase whose lid he had opened. Maggie rounded the bed to look, but remained standing as Sherlock noticed something. Standing, he looked to Maggie and John.

“Look at the case,” he commanded. “There was something tightly packed inside it.”

Maggie glanced down, noticing the deep indent in the case’s contents.

“Yes, you’re right,” she murmured, leaning down to get a closer look.

John cleared his throat, folding his arms as he looked away. “Thanks. I’ll take your word for it,” he said, annoyance clear.

“Problem?” Sherlock asked, raising an eyebrow.

John looked back at him briefly before glancing to Maggie, who was still checking out the case intently, then back up to the detective before turning away again.

“Yeah,” John said, frowning. “I’m not desperate to root around in some bloke’s dirty underwear.”

Sherlock shook his head, walking around to the foot of the bed to look at John.

“Those symbols at the bank - the graffiti. Why were they put there?” he asked the soldier, trying to make him understand the point.

“What?” John asked. “Some sort of code?”

“Obviously,” Maggie called, standing up from the case.

Sherlock moved and looked closely at Van Coon’s pants and shoes.

“The question is: why were they _painted_?” he asked. “If you want to communicate, why not use email?” He continued up to open the man’s jacket and search inside the pockets.

“Maybe he wasn’t answering,” John answered with sarcasm that the only half-listening Sherlock didn’t hear.

“Oh, good. You follow,” Sherlock said.

“Not a bit.”

Sherlock gave him a rather menacing look as he moved to examine the dead man’s hands.

“What kind of message would everyone want to avoid?” Maggie asked aloud.

“What about this morning - those letters you were looking at?” Sherlock asked, looking pointedly at John.

“Bills,” Maggie answered, leaning down to look at the wound on Van Coon’s temple. “Sherlock,” she said quietly, pointing at the banker’s jaw. It was set a bit wider than it should have been.

Sherlock looked up and examined the jaw for a moment before reaching up to gently pry the man’s mouth open. Maggie reached up and slowly pulled out a small, black, origami flower from inside as  small trail of saliva followed it and a hissing sigh escaped from the banker’s dead lungs.

“Yes, he was being threatened,” Sherlock murmured, staring intently at the object in the woman’s hand.

Outside in the hall, a man’s voice could be heard. “Bag this up, will you?”

John looked closely at the flower as well as Maggie inserted it into an evidence bag offered to her by a forensic officer. “Not by the gas board, either,” the soldier murmured.

“And see if you can get prints off this glass,” the voice continued.

Just then, the body belonging to the voice rounded the doorway to the bedroom as Sherlock turned to face the man that entered. Approaching the officer, he offered his hand.

"Ah, Sergeant," the detective murmured when he reached the officer. "We haven't met."

The young man looked disdainfully at Sherlock's hand as if it offended him before ignoring it entirely, preferring instead to put his hand on his hips and raise his look to the detective's face.

Yeah, I know who you are," the man said with a frown. "And I'd prefer it if you didn't tamper with any of the evidence," he finished, giving a pointed look at the evidence bag clasped in Sherlock's opposite hand.

 _Another damn Anderson_ , Maggie thought, her face forming a deep frown.

Sherlock however simply lowered his hand slowly and passed the evidence bag on to the young officer before quickly turning back to the body, keeping his face carefully expressionless.

"We've phoned Lestrade," Maggie said to the officer, who seemed to have taken the lead role over the others, which pissed her off a bit. "Is he on his way?"

"He's busy," the man answered immediately. "And it's not Sergeant," he said toward Sherlock, who was continuing an examination of the body and clothing. "It's Detective Inspector. Dimmock."

Sherlock and Maggie both raised their heads in surprise and looked at the man before looking at each other as well. This 'Detective Inspector' looked far too young to be just that, and, more importantly, where the hell was Lestrade? He was the only one that would work with Sherlock, and Maggie by extension, well.

Maggie opened her mouth to exactly what was keeping Lestrade so busy, but, before even a sound could escape from her, Dimmock had turned on a heel and walked out of the room. Feeling the expectation to follow, the trio left after him, filing down the hall. Once in the living room, the D.I. handed the evidence bag containing the flower to another member of the forensic team.

"We're obviously looking at a suicide," Dimmock said, turning toward the group.

John nodded, stuffing his hands into his jacket pockets. "That does seem the only explanation of all the facts," he murmured, glancing around.

Sherlock, who had been examining the flat in more detail with Maggie, slipped off his gloves as he turned back to the other detective. "Wrong," he declared. "It's one explanation of some of the facts."

"What're you going on about?" the man asked.

Maggie looked at Dimmock, whom she had taken a great disliking to. "You've got a solution you like," she began, narrowing her eyes a bit, "but you ignore everything that doesn't follow it."

Dimmock gave her a short glare, lifting his hands to his hips. " _Like_?"

"The wound was on the right side of his head," she answered with a confident smile.

The inspector gave a quick bark of laughter. " _And_? Jesus, where'd you find this one?" he asked, looking to Sherlock. "Sure you know what you're talking about, girl? This is an investigation, and I haven't got time for this nonsense."

Sherlock stepped in front of the woman, giving the inspector an impressive death look. "Van Coon was left-handed," he said firmly, setting his jaw. "Requires quite a bit of contortion to shoot yourself in the opposite side of the head." Demonstrating said contortion, he held up his left hand as if it were a gun and tried to 'shoot' himself in the right temple, throwing his arm over the top of his head and then twisting it beneath his chin. Neither direction would provide the clean, horizontal shot that was shown in Van Coon's head.

"Left-handed?" Dimmock asked, his eyebrows stitching together as his expression morphed into confusion and disbelief.

"Oh, I'm _amazed_ you didn't notice!" Sherlock exclaimed rather sarcastically. "All you have to do is look around this flat."

Stepping from behind the consulting detective, Maggie quickly interrupted him, pointing toward the sofa and coffee table nearby.

"There," she said. "Coffee table's on the left hand side - the coffee mug's handle pointing to the left."

Sherlock cut in. "Power sockets: habitually used the ones on the left," he said, unable to hide his small smile when Maggie threw him a menacing look as if to say _I-can-do-this-myself-thank-you-very-much_.

"Pen and paper," she continued, "on the left hand side of the phone because he picked it up with his right and took down messages with his left. Would you like me to continue?" she asked.

Dimmock was quiet for a moment and John answered for him.

"No," the soldier said with a sigh. "I think you covered it."

Sherlock smiled. "Might as well," he said to Maggie. "You're almost at the end of the bottom of the list."

John crossed his arms, nodding with pursed lips as if he had expected this.

Maggie pointed toward the kitchen. "There's a knife on the breadboard in the kitchen with butter on the right side of the blade because he used it with his left," she said plainly before crossing her arms to look at the inspector impatiently. "It's highly unlikely a left-handed man would shoot himself in the right side of his head. Conclusion: someone broke in here and murdered him."

" _Only_ explanation of _all_ the facts," Sherlock said.

Dimmock stared at them for a moment. "But the gun," he murmured. "Why-"

"He was waiting for the killer," Sherlock interrupted. "He'd been threatened." Walking away, the consulting detective picked up his coat and scarf to begin putting them back on.

" _What_?" Dimmock asked in disbelief.

John closed his eyes and gripped the bridge of his nose in between his thumb and forefinger. "Today at the bank," he said, trying to provide an explanation. "Some sort of warning."

"He fired a shot when his attack arrived," Maggie said, putting on her own rather ragged coat.

The inspector looked her up and down in the new attire, a disgusted frown flashing across his features before he regained his composure. "And the _bullet_?"

"Through the open window," came her answer as she gently pulled the hair from the collar of her coat.

"Oh come on!" Dimmock exclaimed in disbelief. "What are the chances of that?!"

Sherlock popped up the collar on his coat. "Wait until you get the ballistics report. The bullet in his brain right now wasn't fired from his gun. I guarantee it."

Sherlock began to leave but paused in his exit as Detective Inspector  Dimmock spoke up.

"But if his door was locked from the inside, how did the killer get in?"

Sherlock turned say something but Maggie beat him to it. Shoving a hand into her glove, she spoke condescendingly. " _Good_!" she exclaimed. "You're finally asking the right questions."

The woman then turned and shoved her way around Sherlock to leave as fast as her feet would take her without fully running. Sherlock stared off in the direction she had stomped off in for a moment before quickly following, flipping his coat as he did. John gave a slight apologetic look toward Dimmock before rushing out as well.


	18. Ghostly Killer

Once back on the street, the soldier and detective quickly caught up with the girl, who seemed dreadfully furious. They joined on either side of her, neither speaking a word. Her hands, though balled tightly at her sides, shook just slightly, one of the only signs of her barely contained rage, the other sign was her face. Her expression was extremely dark. Her eyes remained focused on the sidewalk before her, although Sherlock could plainly see that such focus was very forced. Her eyebrows scrunched close together, and her mouth seemed in a permanent frown, only shifting as she chewed hard on the inside of her lip to keep herself from screaming. She tasted the copper sting of blood on her tongue, but it didn't calm her rage. That detective had infuriated her more than anyone had in a very long time. His demeaning comments, the looks. She was bloody pissed off, and the mood wasn't going to go away soon. A muscle in her jaw jumped as they rounded a corner, and Sherlock looked at John.

"Mind running in and getting some coffees for all of us, John?" he asked the soldier, jerking his head slightly at the corner cafe they were next to.

John looked at the shop and back to the detective before the girl, who had stopped with them but still dared not to look at the men. "Uh, yeah, sure I'll, um, just..." he trailed off slightly after pulling out his wallet and seeing the lack of any quid.

Sherlock sighed. "You still have my card, don't you?" he asked.

John's eyebrows shot up as he remembered. "Ah, yes, right here actually," he murmured, sliding the card smoothly out of one of the pockets in the leather. "Do you, um, want it back?"

"No, I was actually thinking you could use it to get the coffee. Black, two sugars, please," the detective made his order. "Maggie?"

She blinked a few times before slowly looking at the soldier who watched her intently, waiting for her to say what she wanted.

She cleared her throat. "Um, just tea for me, thanks. Two sugars and a splash of milk," she said quietly, looking back to the sidewalk. A leaf rolled by her feet, carried by the unseen force of the wind.

"Great," John said. "I'll just go get that. And you'll be...?"

"We'll find an area out here," Sherlock answered, nodding his head toward the group of outdoor tables placed around the cafe. John pursed his lips, nodding, before turning and entering the small establishment.

"So, where would you like to sit?" Sherlock asked, putting a hand on Maggie's shoulder. She looked around the tables and spotted one in the farthest corner, near a small alleyway. Choosing it, the girl walked forward at a quick pace, leaving Sherlock's hand hanging in the air. He dropped it and followed behind.

She sat with a hard expression, her face becoming expressionless as the man sat across from her, folding his hands on the table.

"You can't hide your anger from me," he said quietly. In her mind, she cursed the man before her. His deductions, as she now saw, could be rather annoying, although she imagined her anger was plain to almost any person. She was never great about hiding emotions. "Rant, if you must," he murmured, leaning back and waving his hand in a throwaway manner.

"I don't have the need," she said through gritted teeth. "I'm fine."

He smirked. "Dimmock's a prat."

"You fucking bet he is," she spat. "That man pissed me off quite well in the few moments I enjoyed his company. He could at least act civil. We were trying to help out the prick."

Sherlock nodded thoughtfully, as if understanding.

"He bloody well listen to what we're trying to tell him," she said. "Otherwise he's damn useless. I wanted to tell him to piss off so bloody badly after the way he was talking to me, and the way he was to you." Her fists squeezed in frustration.

"He will listen," the detective said, a determined expression lining his features. "Unless he's a complete idiot."

She scoffed. "I wouldn't hold out much hope there."

The detective gave a short laugh. "Anything else you want to say before John gets back? Get your anger out."

"That's not healthy," she said, looking at the table.

"Healthier than holding it all in," came his reply.

She sighed. "Well, if he ever acts like that again, he'll get a real load of anger thrown at him, how 'bout that?" she said with a small smile.

He smiled back, but only a bit. "Well, judging by the rather short line in the shop and the complexity of our orders, John should be returning with our drinks right about-"

Three cups were then set upon the table in front of the two, carried by their very own Army doctor.

"-now."

John pulled up a chair from an empty table nearby. Sitting on the black metal of it, he reached for his drink.

"Now, what?" he asked, taking a sip.

Sherlock took a drink from his own cup, as did Maggie, who smiled lightly at the taste and comfort it brought.

"Now," he said, "we need to inform Sebastian of Van Coon's current situation." He pulled out his mobile.

Maggie set her cup down. "Gonna email him? Text?"

Sherlock shook his head. "With this, I'd much rather tell him in person."

"Get an appointment for tomorrow then?"

"I'll speak with him today."

John laughed. "How do you plan to do that? Bank's probably closed, mate, and if it's not, your guy's got to have meetings to get to. You don't even know where he is at the moment, let alone any other time today."

Sherlock began typing out a message after finding the correct contact within his phone.

"No, but I will soon enough."

***

Shortly afterward, the trio arrived by taxi at a restaurant which Sherlock had found to be where Sebastian was having lunch. When they entered, Sebastian sat at a table with a few other men whom Maggie assumed were colleagues of his or possibly some clients. They caught the tail end of a joke about some bloke trying to cut his hair with a fork, as he and his colleagues laughed, Sebastian raising a glass of water to drink.. Sherlock stalked toward the table and cut off the laughter as he spoke quickly.

“It was a threat. That’s what the graffiti meant,” he said bluntly.

Sebastian looked up, his eyebrows raising in surprise at the sight of the detective standing above him. “Uh,” he cleared his throat. “I’m kind of in a meeting. Can you make an appointment with my secretary?”

Maggie rolled her eyes as Sherlock started again. “I don’t think this can wait,” he said. “Sorry, Sebastian. One of your traders, someone who worked in your office, was killed.”

“ _What_?” Sebastian asked, the glass of water frozen in his hand.

“Van Coon,” Maggie said.

John nodded. “The police are at his flat.”

Sebastian’s eyes blinked a few times, the baker obviously in shock. “Killed?” he asked, still processing the information.

The detective nodded. “Sorry to interfere with everyone’s digestion,” he said, sarcastic. “Still want to make an appointment? Would, maybe, nine o’clock at Scotland yard suit?”

Slowly, the banker lowered his glass to the table and leaned back in his seat, throwing apologetic glances to the others at the table as he ran a finger nervously around the inside of his shirt collar as if it were suddenly too tight.

“Excuse me for a moment, gentlemen,” he said, standing. “Follow me,” he said under his breath as he passed Sherlock, who did so, John and Maggie right behind him.

The group reached the toilets and Sebastian entered, followed by Sherlock and John. Maggie paused for a moment with her hand on the open door,  looking at the sign. She looked to Sherlock and raised an eyebrow.

“I guess I’ll stay out here,” she said.

The detective nodded. “Unfortunately, it’s probably best,” he said.

She allowed the door to shut and leaned on the wall outside, arms crossed, waiting.

***

Much later, Maggie had moved to the opposite wall, and Sebastian pushed the door open, barely nodding her way as he continued down the short hall and back to whatever important meeting he was having with the other men at that table from earlier. Just a moment later, Sherlock and John followed. Maggie rose the wall and stepped forward. The look on Sherlock’s face told her it hadn’t gone well, and that he wasn’t happy about it, so she decided not to say anything.

***

When they got to the flat later that afternoon, John excused himself with something about continuing his job search, and Maggie made her way to the kitchen to make another cup of tea for herself.

After that was done, she re entered the living area and rounded to the bookcase to pick up something to read. Perching on the couch, she opened the cover and lay it in her lap, holding the teacup in both her hands.

“What do you make of it?” Sherlock suddenly asked from his own chair, where he sat staring into the kitchen.

“What do I make of what?”

“How did the vandal get into the bank?”

The book shut. “You and I both know how.  Window.”

“Yes,” he murmured. “But why?”

She shrugged. “If it was a threat, like we think, then he must have done something whoever left it deemed worthy of killing him. As for _exactly_ what, there’s nothing to point to any specific claim yet.”

Sherlock nodded, his hands steepling before his face.  Maggie’s eyes scanned his form.

She sighed. “You're taking your own bed tonight,” she stated.

The man shook his head.

“Yes, you _are_. The lines under your eyes have been getting darker, and I strongly doubt you’ve slept much on this couch, if at all. You’re exhausted, and I feel bad.”

“I don’t sleep on cases.”

“Yeah, yeah, and no eating either, I know. But you haven’t been sleeping off a case either since I got here. I’ll take the couch tonight, I really don’t mind.”

The detective sighed, flipping through a paper.

“I’m going to try to find a place of my own soon anyway.”

Sherlock’s head flicked up, his eyes meeting hers. “What? Where?”

“I don’t know yet.”

He scoffed. “You’ve really planned it all out then.”

Mrs. Hudson suddenly entered from the hall with a small plate. “Planned what?” she asked towards Sherlock before leaning toward Maggie. “Here,” she gestured, holding the plate in front of the girl. “I made a few too many biscuits.”

Maggie nodded, smiling gratefully as she picked up a biscuit. As Mrs. Hudson took the plate toward Sherlock, she spoke up.

“I’m planning on moving into my own place soon, once I can find a place that is,” she said, answering the landlady’s question.

The woman stood up straight after Sherlock refused a biscuit, his face once again going to a concentrated stare towards the kitchen as his hands settled in front of his mouth.

“Well, I don’t know for sure, but I think Mr. Brown just down the street might have a free room.”

“Really?” The woman nodded. “I’ll try to get in contact with him soon then.”

“Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock said, his eyes not moving from the point he was intent upon in the kitchen. “Don’t you have a room downstairs?”

The woman laughed. “You mean 221C? That place isn’t fixed up yet, dear. She can’t live down there.”

“No, I mean the bedroom in your flat. It’s not being used, is it?”

The landlady blinked. “You’re right, actually. I hadn’t thought of that. You could live in there, sweetheart,” she said, looking to the other girl.

“How much would you need for rent?”

“Whatever it is, Mycroft will likely pay it,” Sherlock interrupted.

“I’m not having the British Government pay for my flat, Sherlock. I’m looking for a job, just like John.”

Mrs. Hudson perked up. “Well, if you need one, I can see if there’s a place in the shop!”

“Oh, that would be wonderful!” Maggie said, before pausing. “But, maybe something where I wouldn’t have to interact too much with people?” she asked.

The woman nodded. “Right. I understand dear. I’ll see if there’s room in the kitchen. You could make sandwiches, fill in for Karen when she has days off. All you’d have to do is read the ticket and make what it says.”

Maggie smiled. “That sounds perfect.”

“Alright, dear. I’ll go down tomorrow and see when you can start. I need to clean up that room a bit before you can move into it though.”

“Why don’t I help you?” the girl asked, moving her book to the end table. “I don’t have anything better to do, and I may not be able to pay rent very soon in case the shop doesn’t work out.”

That would actually be very helpful, sweetie, with my hip and all,” the older woman said, patting the offending bone with her free hand.

The girl smiled, standing.

***

She was moved into the room that night, albeit later than expected. When she awoke the next morning, Mrs. Hudson informed her that the job in the kitchen was open, and she could start a shift today, should she like to try out the job. It would be a short shift, just to fill her in on how the shop ran and whatnot.

A few hours later, she was leaving her shift, reaching the door to 221 Baker Street just at the same time as John was.

“How did the interview go?” she asked as he opened the door for her. He’d told Mrs. Hudson where he’d been going this morning, and the woman had told Maggie earlier in the shop.

“Great,” he said. “It was great.”

She smiled a bit at him, beginning up the stairs behind him as he removed his jacket.

When they entered the flat they found Sherlock sitting in a dining chair, his fingers steeples under his chin, staring at many printed pictures of the graffiti from the bank that were taped and stuck to the mirror above the fireplace. A computer was open behind him. Maggie noted that he looked much better than the night before, obviously having gotten some sleep. She walked forward to examine the pictures herself as John stepped forward and discarded his jacket onto his chair.

“I said, ‘Could you pass me a pen?’” Sherlock murmured, his eyes never straying from the photographs.

Both Maggie and John looked around the living room, wondering if he was speaking to someone else.

“When?” they asked, at the same moment.

“About an hour ago,” the detective said, still not looking up.

John sighed. “Didn’t notice I’d gone out, then.”

“Or me,” Maggie said quietly, looking back to the photos. They still hadn’t figured out what code or language this was, even last night.

John picked up a pen from the table near his chair and tossed it in Sherlock’s direction without even looking at him. Sherlock caught it in his left hand without moving his gaze. The doctor moved to join Maggie in examining the photos more closely.

“Went to see about a job at that surgery,” John said, absently.

“How was it,” Sherlock asked.

“It’s great,” the man said. “She’s great.”

“Who?” the detective and girl asked at the same time.

John looked round at both of them, as if realizing what he said. “The job.”

“‘She’?” Maggie asked.

John was quiet a moment. “...It,” he said, a bit firm.

Sherlock and Maggie looked at him suspiciously for a moment, but then Sherlock’s head jerked to the right, a gesture for the two of them to come over.

“Here,” he said. “Have a look.”

“Hmm?” John asked.

The two came over, joining on either side of the detective to look at the web page on the computer he had opened. The webpage was from an online news source, and the headline simply read “ _Ghostly killer leaves a mystery for the police_ ”. On the side of the article was a picture of a bald man. Leaning a bit closer, she read some of the article.

_“An intruder who can walk through walls murdered a man in his London apartment last night. Brian Lukis, 41, a freelance journalist from Earl’s Court was found shot in his fourth floor flat but all his doors and windows were locked and there were no apparent signs of a break in. A police spokesman said they are still uncertain how the assailant broke in.”_

“An intruder that can walk through walls,” John breathed.

Sherlock nodded. “Happened last night. Journalist shot dead in his flat; doors locked, windows bolted from the inside.”

“Exactly the same as Van Coon,” Maggie murmured.

John straightened up suddenly, looking at the other two.

“God, you think…” he trailed off.

“He’s killed another one,” Sherlock said, shutting the laptop.


	19. Cipher In The Library

They made their way to Scotland Yard almost immediately, only pausing to obtain their coats. As Maggie took hers and slipped it over her frame, she noticed a patch coming loose in an elbow, a bit of fluff poking out of the corner. Poking it back inside with a finger, she made a mental note to see if Mrs. Hudson had a sewing kit so she could fix the stitching. Sherlock gave her a glance as she did, and she gave him a look to let him know once again that she wasn’t planning to wear the other one. She didn’t need it, and this coat was the last item she had from her old life.

At New Scotland Yard, D.I. Dimmock had been sitting at his desk when they entered. Looking up from his papers as they approached, he closed the binder before him and leaned back in his chair, folding his arms. He was obviously irritated by their presence, but Maggie, remembering her conversation with Sherlock before, had decided that she didn’t care any longer. The group stopped in front of the man’s desk and Sherlock opened the laptop he had brought with them, typing for a moment.

“Brian Lukis,” he said quickly. “Freelance journalist. Murdered in his flat, doors locked from the inside.” He turned the computer to show the Detective Inspector the online article the trio had looked at just before.

“You have to admit, it’s similar,” Maggie told him, crossing her arms.

Dimmock’s eyes scanned the web page as he scowled a bit at the screen.

John raised his eyebrows at him as he watched. “Both men killed by someone who can walk through solid walls?”

Sherlock placed both hands on the desk, leaning down slightly to look at the man behind it. “Inspector, do you seriously believe that Eddie Van Coon was just another City suicide?” he asked.

The other detective seemed to squirm, refusing to meet the other man’s eyes. Maggie rolled her eyes, sighing.

“You’ve seen the ballistics report, I suppose?” she asked.

Dimmock nodded.

Sherlock straightened, looking up to the ceiling. “And the shot that killed him: was it fired from his own gun?”

Dimmock’s answer seemed to come even more reluctantly than before. “No,” he murmured.

“No,” Maggie said back, her voice rather hard.

“Right. So,” Sherlock said, looking down at Dimmock, “this investigation might move a bit quicker if you were to take my word as _gospel_.”

As Dimmock looked back at the detective, refusing to utter a word, Sherlock leaned forward over the man’s desk. He spoke quietly, but with an intensity that showed he was very serious.

“I’ve just handed you a murder inquiry,” he murmured. “Five minutes,” he continued, standing to speak a bit louder. “in his flat.” He finished with a point at Lukis’s picture on the computer.

***

It worked, of course. Dimmock led them to Brian’s flat just a few moments later. Just after entering the doorway to the block of flats, they hurried up a few flights of stairs before reaching the police tape that stretched from the banister to the wall at the base of the final set of stairs. Sherlock, who had somehow made it ahead of everyone else, ducked under the tape quickly while everyone else followed him upwards. The consulting detective’s eyes looked all around him, taking in anything and everything as he stepped up and into the living room of the flat. Maggie’s eyes fell over the piles upon piles of books that lay about. She even recognized a few of the titles.

“Obviously an avid reader,” she murmured quietly.

“Yes,” Sherlock answered. Maggie looked up to see him staring at a small, black, origami flower lying on the carpet by a rather small stack of books. One glance at each other told them what they both were thinking. The flower was almost identical to the one Sherlock pulled from Eddie Van Coon’s mouth. Looking around a bit more, Maggie also noticed many newspapers were scattered all about the place, mostly on the floor, and a suitcase nearby lay open and completely empty.

Sherlock made his way toward the kitchen area and looked around for a moment, finding nothing of consequence. Moving to look out the window, he squinted a bit, adjusting the curtain. A smirk appeared on his face.

“What?” Maggie asked, looking away from him to examine the suitcase.

“Four floors up,” he said. “That’s why they think they’re safe. Put a chain across the door and bolt it and they think they’re impregnable.”

Maggie’s eyes widened as she stood and moved to the middle of the room, scanning all around it once again.

“They don’t consider for a moment that there’s another way in,” she said slowly, turning and looking out the doorway to the landing.

“I don’t understand,” Dimmock stated, folding his arms as he stood against the wall near the doorway.

Maggie caught sight of something and began to walk purposefully toward the landing, Sherlock following quickly behind her.

“You’re dealing with a killer that can climb,” Sherlock informed the detective as he passed.

The girl was looking up at something on the landing. She pointed to it and looked to Sherlock, who nodded to her. Looking down for a moment, she saw a box near the wall. Stepping up and onto it, she examined the skylight she had found.

“What are you doing?” Dimmock asked, having rounded the doorway for a look.

Sherlock ignored the question, stepping behind Maggie to look up as well. “He clings to the walls like an insect,” he murmured absently, thinking out loud. Maggie reached up and unhooked the latch on the window. Hitting it once, she was just able to push the panel upward, allowing a small burst of air to come in, blowing at her hair a bit.

“That’s how he got in,” she said softly.

Dimmock’s eyebrows shot up. “ _What_?”

Sherlock moved to Maggie’s side, nodding. “Climbed up the walls, must’ve run along the roof and then -”

“- dropped in through the skylight,” Maggie finished, peering up at the sky through the glass.

“You’re not serious!” Dimmock exclaimed. “Like Spiderman?” The sarcasm in his tone was evident.

“He scaled six floors of a Dockland’s apartment building and jumped the balcony to kill Van Coon,” Sherlock said. Maggie pulled the window pane down and closed.

Dimmock let out a short laugh of disbelief. “H-hold on!”

“And of course that’s how he got into the bank,” Maggie continued, looking to Sherlock below her. “He ran along the window ledge and into the terrace.”

Sherlock nodded. “We have to find out what connects these two men.

He looked about the landing. As he made a rather quick turn, caused his coat to fly up, the corner of the coat’s bottom hit Maggie’s leg, the force of the turn causing the fabric to wrap around it and pull the leg backward and Maggie herself to lose her balance on the box. As she began to fall, the detective’s reflexes kicked in. He turned in a flash, his coat untangling itself from her leg. Stepping behind her, he threw out an arm to catch the woman.

Her heart was in overdrive from the pure terror of the possibility of the fall. It would have been terribly easy for her to have hit the banister nearby and subsequently tumble down the stairway. However, when she found herself not hitting any of those things, or even the floor, but a body, she looked up to see that Sherlock had caught her with an arm around her torso after her back and head fell against his chest. Her legs were a bit tangled, but her feet rested against the floor, her knees bent only slightly, but enough that if Sherlock were to let her go now, she would still fall onto her arse. She looked up to see his eyes staring at her with slight concern.

“Are you okay?” he asked, taking her arm with his other hand and helping her stand correctly.

She turned to face him and nodded, brushing her hair behind an ear. “Yes, thank you,” she said quietly. She looked over to see Dimmock had practically disregarded her fall, while John stood a bit behind the detective, a small smile on his face. That smile disappeared when Sherlock turned to look, the soldier’s face quickly morphing back to one of concentration. Looking back to the consulting detective, he gave her a quick nod and went back to looking around.

“We have to find out what connects these two men,” he muttered.

Maggie was nodding when her eyes fell upon one of the many scattered piles of books that lay to one side of the staircase nearby. Stepping around the detective, she moved down and saw the book on the top of the ple lay open on it’s front page, and the dust on the book underneath had been displaced recently, making it seem as though that particular book on top had been thrown down in a hurry, perhaps as Lukis had run by, rushing to hide himself from his murderer.

As she bent and picked up the volume, her eyes scanning the page, Sherlock stepped down, standing above her and looking down to see what she was doing.

“Borrowed from the West Kensington Library,” she murmured as she stood to show him the stamp on the inside cover.

The detective took the object gently from her hands and examined the page himself. Nodding, he snapped the book shut and began quickly down the stairs, holding it tight in his hand as he ducked under the police tape. The others quickly followed after him.

***

Only a taxi ride later, the trio had left Dimmock behind and arrived at the library in question. After entering the building, Sherlock checked the small label on the spine of the book from Lukis’s flat, determining the section of the library to which they needed to go. Leading the way up the escalator and through a maze of shelves, he quickly found the right aisle.

“Date stamped on the book is the same as the day that he died,” the detective murmured, opening the book once again to check what he already knew. He looked once again to the reference number on the spine and scanned the other books on the shelves, finding the correct area nearby. Maggie searched with him, pulling out books, pening some to look inside the cover, peering in at the shelving behind. There was nothing.

John, meanwhile, stood behind them, glancing around a bit. Looking to a nearby shelf, he slip a book from it’s place and opened the cover to read a page. Glancing up, his eyebrows shot up at the sight of something through them empty space left by the book.

“Sherlock,” he murmured. “Maggie.”

The pair turned to see the soldier staring into the gap before him. Sherlock stepped over and immediately reached forward, taking more books than seemed possible in his hand and pulling them from the shelf. After passing them back to Maggie, he took another large handful, finally revealing what lay behind.

There, on the back wall of the metal shelving unit, the same two symbols from the bank office were sprayed on the surface with bright yellow paint.

***

After taking a photograph of the graffiti and replacing the books, they left the library to return to 221B. At the moment, Sherlock had printed the pictures from his phone and taped them as well to the mirror with the others, and the three stood around the fireplace, staring at them.

“So, the killer goes back to the bank,” Sherlock said, “leaves a threatening cipher for Van Coon. Van Coon panics, returns to his apartment, locks himself in.”

Maggie could see it in her head, the banker terrified in his flat as he rushed to lock the door, fasten the chain, doing all he could to save himself before he hid in his bedroom.

“Hours later,” she murmured, “he dies.”

John folded his arms, looking at the image of the cipher in the library.

“The killer finds Lukis at the library,” he said. “He writes the cipher on the shelf where he knows it’ll be seen. Lukis goes home.”

“Late that night, he dies too,” Sherlock muttered.

John’s arms dropped to his sides. “Why did they die?” he asked softly.

Sherlock’s hand seemed to move up on its own to run his fingers over the bright yellow line on Sir William’s eyes.

“Only the cipher can tell us,” he whispered, tapping his finger on the photo.


	20. Chapter 20: Graffiti & Receipts

Sherlock seemed to get an idea after staring at the pictures intently for a few minutes, and this idea led to the trio leaving for Trafalgar Square. Walking through it by a fountain, Sherlock began speaking to them.

“The world is run on codes and ciphers,” he said as he continued at his quickened pace. “Everywhere, from the security system at the bank worth a million pounds to that PIN machine you took exception to at the store, John, cryptography inhabits our every waking moment.”

“Yes,” John said. “Okay, but?”

“But it’s all computer-generated,” Sherlock continued. “Electronic codes, electronic ciphering methods. This is different. It’s an ancient device, so-”

“So modern code-breaking methods won’t unravel it?” Maggie asked.

“Exactly.”

“So where are we headed?” John asked.

“I need to ask some advice.”

“What?” John asked, his eyebrows shooting up just as Maggie’s did as well.

“Sorry?” she asked, thinking she heard him wrong.

Sherlock turned his head as they made their way up the steps of the National Gallery to give them each a dark look.

“You heard me perfectly,” he said in an annoyed tone. “I’m not saying it again.”

John gave him a joking smile. “ _You_  need advice?”

“On painting, yes,” Sherlock said, continuing up the steps as they followed. “I need to talk to an expert.”

John and Maggie shared an amused look behind the detective’s back as he led them toward the Gallery, but were surprised to find that instead of an expert  _inside_  the Gallery, Sherlock had an expert all the way around it, at the rear of the building in the alleyway. They were even more surprised to find that his expert was a young man spray painting an image on one of the metal doors that led into the back of the gallery.

The image was of a policeman holding a rifle, but instead of a human nose, the man had a pig’s snout. His tag was below the image, the name RAZ painted in black, just like the rest of his artwork. The man was holding a can of paint in both hands, adding the final touches to the paint. A large canvas bag lay near his feet, filled with even more cans of paint in various colors. He continued his work as they approached, not even looking up to see who they were.

“Part of a new exhibition,” he commented as they reached him.

“Interesting,” Sherlock said, his voice showing that he was particularly uninterested.

The man sprayed in a few spots before leaning back to look at the work as a whole. “I call it: ‘Urban Bloodlust Frenzy,’” he said, shaking the paint cans with a smile. He chuckled a bit.

“Catchy,” John said, a bit of sarcasm slipping into his voice.

Raz ignored him, continuing to spray away. “I’ve got two minutes before a Community Support Officer comes round that corner,” he said.

“I’d say one and a half,” Maggie commented, looking at the alley way entrance as she remembered seeing the officers in the square.

Raz stopped sprayed for just a moment as he looked round to Sherlock. “Can we do this while I’m workin’?” he asked.

Sherlock pulled his phone from his pocket and unlocked it, holding it out to Raz. Raz looked at the phone then back up to the detective before turning to toss one of his paint cans to John, who caught it instinctively. As John looked at the men in slight shock, as if wondering why  _he_  had to hold the paint can, Raz took the phone from Sherlock with his now free hand. The image on the screen was of the graffiti from the bank.

“Know the author?” Sherlock asked.

“Raz shook his head slightly as he squinted at the picture. “Recognise the paint,” he said. “Looks like Michigan. Hardcore propellant. I’d say... zinc.”

Sherlock nodded once. “What about the symbols? Do you recognise them?”

Raz squinted once more at the screen. “I’m not even sure if that’s a proper language,” he mumbled.

Sherlock frowned. “Two men have been murdered, Raz. Deciphering this is the key to finding out who killed them.”

Raz looked up. “What, and  _this_  is all you’ve got to go on?” he asked, gesturing to the screen with his other can of paint. “It’s hardly much now, is it?”

“Are you going to help us, or not?” Sherlock asked.

Raz sighed, handing the phone back to Sherlock. “I’ll ask around,” he said.

“Somebody must know something about it,” Maggie murmured.

“ _Oi_!” a voice came from behind them.

All of them turned to see two Community Support Officers making their way towards them. Maggie looked down at her watch.

“Huh,” she said. “Right on time.”

As the officers broke into a run, Raz dropped the spray can in his and and kicked his bag toward John before running off.  Sherlock grabbed Maggie’s arms rather roughly to pull her into a run after Raz. John, however, the idiot, stood stock still as the others ran and the officers reached him. He turned toward them as Maggie was pulled around a corner, and she could no longer see what happened to him.

“We shouldn’t have left him!” Maggie said to Sherlock as he continued to pull her along.

“He should have run!” the detective answered back.

 

***

 

A few hours later, Maggie was in her room downstairs, speaking on the phone with Mycroft Holmes.

“We’re on a case,” she was telling him. “Two blokes murdered after seeing a certain set of graffiti symbols. We’re trying to figure out what they mean.”

“Is he eating?” Mycroft’s voice came through the phone. “Sleeping?”

“He’s been sleeping, as far as I know,” she said. “I moved out of his room awhile ago, so he has his bed back. As for eating, I don’t think so. Not much, at least. He had tea earlier, but no biscuits.”

Mycroft’s annoyed sigh came to her ear. “He never eats on a case. Says it slows him down.”

“It?”

“ _Digesting_ ,” he answered.

“Ah.”

“Anything else to report?” he asked.

“Nothing out of the ordinary,” she said.

“Is there an  _ordinary_  with him?”

She let out a short chuckle. “No, I don’t think so.”

“No drugs?”

“None,” she answered.

“Good. I’ll speak to you again soon,” he said. The phone hung up before she could say anything else.

She had wondered at first how he had gotten ahold of her new number, but didn’t question it after remembering what Sherlock said before.  _He_  is  _the british government._

Suddenly she heard the front door slam and listened for a moment, hearing John’s distinct footstep pattern. He still moved that one leg a bit slower than the other. Probably always would.

She left her room as she heard him going up the stairs, and had just begun up them herself when she heard 221B’s kitchen door slam just as hard as the front door had. It didn’t take Sherlock Holmes to deduce that the man was mad as all hell.

She could hear John speaking to Sherlock as she entered the flat to find John with his fists clenched, looking at Sherlock, who was looking at a book.

“Just formalities,” the soldier was saying. “Fingerprints, charge sheet. And I’ve gotta be in Magistrate’s Court on Tuesday.”

“What?” Sherlock said absently, clearly having not been listening.

“ _What_?” Maggie asked from the doorway, concerned.

John gave her a short look before turning back to the detective, who was still absent from the conversation. “ _Me_ , Sherlock, in court, on Tuesday,” he said. His voice dropped low with anger. “ _They're givin' me an ASBO_!”

“Good, fine,” Sherlock said.

“ _Listen_ , Sherlock,” Maggie said tightly. 

“You can tell your little  _pal_  he’s welcome to go and own up anytime,” John said.

Sherlock slammed the book shut. “This symbol,” he murmured. “I can’t place it.”

Maggie rolled her eyes and fell into a seat on the couch, giving up. John walked toward the dining table, beginning to take off his coat, apparently having given up as well.

Sherlock turned. “No, no,” he said loudly, hurrying over to the soldier and grabbing hold of the jacket, pulling it back onto the man’s shoulders. “I need you to got to the police station.” He turned the man round and steered him toward the door.

“Oi!,” John exclaimed.

“Ask about the journalist,” Sherlock ordered.

“Oh,  _Jesus_ ,” John said, exasperated, adjusting the coat that had been put on him roughly.

Sherlock hurried over and picked up his own coat. “His personal effects will have been impounded. Get hold of his diary, or something that will tell us his movements.”

“Sherlock, come on,” Maggie said. “Let him have a break.”

The detective ignored her comment. “You,” he said, pointing her way as he put on his coat. “Come with me.”

She sighed with annoyance as he walked by, pulling her up from her seat and handing her coat to her. She put it on as they went down the stairs, once again fixing the bit of puff from the loosened patch.

“May I ask where we’re going?” she asked as they exited the building.

“Gonna go see Van Coon’s P.A.,” he said. “If we retrace their steps, somewhere, they’ll coincide.”

He pulled her along down the street as she looked back to see John hailing a taxi. She didn’t notice what he did, however. A woman across the street with dark hair, sunglasses over her eyes, was holding up a camera in the soldier’s direction, seemingly snapping a picture of him.

 

***

 

In Van Coon’s office at the bank, Sherlock was speaking to the man’s P.A., standing beside her to look at his calendar on the computer. Maggie stood just outside, but could hear what was being said.

“He flew back from Dalian on Friday,” Amanda, the P.A., said. “Looks like he had back to back meetings with the sales team.”

“Can you print me a copy?” Sherlock asked.

“Sure,” she said.

“What about the day he died?” the detective asked. “Can you tell me where he was?”

She looked at the screen. “Ah, sorry. Bit of a gap. I have all of his receipts,” she said.

Maggie entered the office as the woman pulled all the receipts out, spreading them on the desk, assuming Sherlock would need her help to look through them. Amanda gave her a small smile that she slowly returned.

“What kind of boss was he, Amanda?” Sherlock asked. “Appreciative?”

Amanda paused. “Um, no. That’s not a word I’d use. The only things Eddie appreciated had a big price tag.”

Sherlock kneeled down on the floor to see the receipts better and Maddie rounded him to get a better look herself. As she moved, she noticed a bottle of lotion on the desk.

“Like that hand cream?” she asked the assistant. “He bought that for you, didn’t he?”

The woman fiddled nervously with a small pin in her hair, giving Maggie a surprised look, not answering.

Sherlock picked up a receipt from the desk and handed it to Maggie.

“Look at this one,” he said. “Got a taxi from home on the day he died.”

“Eighteen pounds fifty,” Maggie sad, looking at the slip of paper.

“That would get him to the office,” Amanda offered.

“Mm, not rush hour,” Maggie said. “Check the time.” She showed the paper to the woman, pointing to the time stamp. 10:35.

“Mid-morning,” Sherlock said. “Eighteen would get him as far as…”

“The West End,” Amanda said quickly. “I remember him saying.”

Sherlock held up another receipt. “Underground,” he said. “Printed at one, in Piccadilly.”

“So, he got a Tube back to the office,” Amanda said as Maggie took the receipt from Sherlock. “Why would he get a taxi into town and then the Tube back?” she asked.

Sherlock didn’t pause in his search through the receipts. “Because he was delivering something heavy,” he murmured.

“Didn’t want to pull a package up the steps,” Maggie said quietly. “Of course.”

“Delivering?” Maggie asked, looking between them.

“To somewhere near Piccadilly station,” Maggie said. “Dropped the package, delivered it, and then came back.”

“No,” Sherlock said, picking up another receipt. “Delivered it and stopped on his way. He got peckish,” he said with a smirk.

Maggie took the receipt from him, reading the print.  _Piazza Espresso Bar Italiano_.

 

***

 

Some time later, Sherlock and Maggie were walking past the espresso bar they had found. Sherlock was talking, more to himself than to her.

“So you bought your lunch from here, en route to the station, but where were you headed?” he asked the air. “Where did the taxi drop you?”

He spun around to look at the other shops around as Maggie looked into the diner, wondering what food they had. She was beginning to feel peckish, just like Van Coon must’ve. Her attention was snapped back to the detective as he grunted, slamming into someone else on the sidewalk. Surprisingly, it was John, who was holding what looked to be Brian Lukis’s diary. The soldier looked fairly surprised to have run into the detective, and not just in the literal sense. Sherlock speaking immediately, telling the man all they had found out since seeing him last.

“Eddie Van Coon brought a package here the day he died,” he said quickly. “Whatever was hidden in that case in his flat. I’ve managed to piece together a picture using scraps of information -”

“Sherlock,” John said, trying to stop him.

“-credit card bills, receipts,” the man continued, ignoring him. “He flew back from China, then came here.”

“Sherlock,” the soldier said again.

“Somewhere on this street, somewhere near,” the detective continued. “I don’t know where, but -”

“That shop, over there,” John interrupted him, pointing across the street.

Sherlock looked over, then back to John, a frown on his face.

“How can you tell?” Maggie asked.

“Lukis’ diary,” he said, turning the book to show it to them. “He was here too. Wrote down the address.”

Turning, he began toward the shop, leaving the other two behind.

“Oh,” Sherlock said quietly.

Maggie gave him an amused smile before grabbing his arm to pull him along after the other man.


	21. Chapter 21: Yellow Pages & A Black Lotus

The inside of the shop showed that it was mainly for tourists. Its merchandise consisted mainly of decorative ‘Lucky Cats’, which were statues of cats on their hind legs, one paw raised. Some of the cats had arms that moved back and forth, forward and backward, as if waving, and all the cats were in various sizes. Behind a small counter at the back end of the shop, a small Chinese woman stood and gave a small wave.

“Hello,” Maggie greeted the shopkeeper with a polite smile, looking at a small cat.

As John and Sherlock looked at other items on display, the shopkeeper lifted a medium sized cat from the counter next to her.

“You want lucky cat?” she asked, holding the item out in John’s direction.

After he realised she was speaking to him, John shook his head. “No, thank you. No.”

Sherlock and Maggie’s heads turned to look at the man over their shoulder from opposite sides of the room. Sherlock gave the man a smirk, while Maggie’s smile was more one of slight pity.

“Ten pound,” the woman said, gesturing at him with the cat. “Ten pound!”

The man gave an awkward smile. “Ah, no…”

The woman wasn’t giving up. “I think your wife, she will like!” she said excitedly.

“No, but really, thank you,” the man said. The woman reluctantly dropped the item back on the counter as John turned to look at one of the other tables.

“Hey, Maggie,” he said. “Look at these.”

Thinking he had found something, she rushed over, only to find him pointing to a large set of small, ceramic cups that lacked handles. Small flowers were painted on them. She didn’t see anything that could be a clue, however.

“Pretty, right?” he asked her.

She smiled at him. “Yes, they are. Wouldn’t hold much tea at that size, though.”

The man chuckled. “No, they wouldn’t.”

“I like the cats though,” she said. “Always liked them. They bring luck to whoever owns them, did you know that?”

Sherlock turned away from the shelf of clay statues to look at them. “You don’t really believe all that, do you?” he asked, keeping his voice low. A statue was in his hand.

Maggie looked at him over her shoulder and shook her head lightly. “But it was always interesting to me,” she said quietly. “Are you considering a purchase?” She gestured to the statue he was holding.

The detective gave her a mock warning look at her joking tone. Neither of them had noticed, however, that John had picked up one of the cups, turning it over to check the price. His hand trembled slightly.

“Sherlock,” he said quietly.

Sherlock quickly replaced the statue on the shelving and came over to the other man to look over his shoulder at the cup. Maggie looked as well.

“The label there,” the soldier said, looking up at the wall.

“Yes,” Sherlock said in a quiet voice. “I see it.

There, in the underside sticker, was a small Chinese symbol. A sort of eight looking figure, identical to one half of the graffiti they were researching.

“Exactly the same as the cipher,” Maggie whispered.

John cleared his throat a bit, carefully placing the cup back onto the display.

***

“It’s a number system?” Maggie was asking only a short time later, as they walked down the street from the shop.

“Yes!” Sherlock answered, seeming almost exited. “An ancient one. Hangzhou! These days. only street traders use it. Those were numbers, written on the wall at the bank and on the shelf at the library.”

The detective stopped them in their tracks near a vendor’s display outside of a grocer’s. Boxes of vegetables were there, with signs above them, the names of the vegetables written in both Chinese and English. Underneath this, however, the cost of the item was written. There were numbers in English here as well, but also, just next to it, were symbols in Hangzhou. Sherlock began picking up a few of the items, checking the symbols.

“Numbers,” he said. “Numbers written in Chinese dialect.

“It’s a fifteen!” John said, pointing to a sign with the same strange figure eight symbol. Printed next to it was £15.

“And the blindfold - the horizontal line?” Sherlock was saying. “That was a number as well.”

“There!” Maggie said, pointing and picking up a price tag with the same line he was describing. Written underneath: £1.

“The Chinese number one,” Sherlock said, taking the paper from her, grinning triumphantly.

“We’ve found it!” John said, giving a wide smile.

Sherlock, still seeming extremely happy, began further down the street, Maggie following behind. John began after them as well, but as he turned, he noticed from the corner of his eye that the same woman from outside 221B earlier was standing nearby. She once again was snapping a picture, but as John turned to see her clearly, someone walked by her, and she was gone. John gave a small frown before continuing on after the other two.

***

They began staking out the shop from across the street, sitting in a restaurant at a table near a window. Sherlock sat writing some of the Hangzhou numbers and their English meanings on a small paper napkin while Maggie sat next to him, watching.

“Two men travel back from China,” John said quietly from across the table.

“And both head straight for the Lucky Cat Emporium,” Maggie continued for him.

“What did they see?” John asked, looking toward the shop.

“It’s not what they saw,” Sherlock answered. “It’s what they both brought back in those suitcases.”

John looked at him. “And you don’t mean duty free, do you?”

Sherlock shook his head as a waitress approached and set a plate before John.

“Thank you,” the doctor murmured.

The waitress gave Maggie a cup of tea and small plate of biscuits.

“Thank you very much,” she said, smiling as she turned the cup to pick it up with her left hand.

Sherlock spoke again as the woman walked away.

“Think about what Sebastian told us about Van Coon,” he said. “About how he stayed afloat in the market.”

“Lost five million,” John said quietly.

“And he made it back in a week,” Maggie said, nodding.

John hummed in agreement, nodding.

“That’s how he made such easy money,” Sherlock murmured, continuing to write.

“He was a smuggler,” Maggie said quietly, thinking about the large object that must’ve been in his suitcase.

John took a mouthful of his food. “Of course,” he muttered.

“A guy like him?” Sherlock said. “It would’ve been perfect. A businessman, making frequent trips to Asia.”

“And Lukis was the same,” Maggie said. “A journalist writing about China.”

John nodded again, chewing his food slowly.

Maggie took a sip of her tea as Sherlock continued. “Both of them smuggled stuff out, and the Lucky Cat was their drop off.”

John swallowed. “But why did they die?” he asked. “I mean, it doesn’t make sense. If they both turn up at the shop and deliver the goods, why would someone threaten them and kill them after the event, after they’d finished the job?”

Maggie was quiet. She didn’t know. Sherlock leaned back and sat thoughtfully. After a few seconds of silence, the detective smiled.

“What if one of them was light-fingered?”

“How d’you mean?” John asked between bites.

Maggie leaned forward, looking at the detective. “You think one of them stole something?”

“Yes, something from the hoard,” Sherlock said.

John began nodding, suddenly understanding. “And the killer doesn’t know which one of them took it, so he threatens them both,” he said. “Right.”

Maggie picked up a biscuit and took a small bite as Sherlock looked outside to the window, scanning the face of the building holding the Lucky Cat.

“Remind me,” he said suddenly. “When was the last time it rained?”

Maggie looked round to tell him, but he was up and walking out of the restaurant before the answer could leave her lips. She and John shared a slightly exasperated look before getting up to follow, leaving their food behind.

***

Sherlock led them hurriedly back in the direction of the Lucky Cat, but bent in front of the flat nearby. When the other two caught up, they found him looking intently at a Yellow pages in a plastic wrapper sitting upward against the doorway of the flat. Sherlock touch some of the exposed pages where the wrapper had broken at the corner.

“It’s been here since Monday,” he said, feeling the damp edge of the book. He stood and pressed the doorbell on the wall, and Maggie leaned around him to see the name. _Soo Lin Yao_. Whomever she was, she had drawn a small flower above her name on the label.

Sherlock waited only a few seconds before turning and rushing off to the right, entering the alleyway on the other side of the flat from the Lucky Cat. John and Maggie followed him.

“No one’s been in that flat for three days,” Sherlock said quickly.

“Could’ve gone on holiday,” John offered.

Maggie turned, looking up at the fire escape above them and the back of the flat. A slight wind rustled some of the curtains in Soo Lin’s open window above.

“Windows are open,” she said.

Sherlock looked. “Do you leave you windows open when you go on holiday?” he asked John. John shook his head, but the detective’s eyes were elsewhere, running along the cantilevered fire escape. Turning and taking a run, he jumped and grabbed hold of the final rung of the ladder, pulling it downward until it reached the ground and then hurrying up it. As he stepped toward the window, the ladder rose up behind him, returning to it’s original position where neither John nor Maggie could reach it, both being shorter than Sherlock.

“Sherlock!” Maggie cried out, trying to get him to come back and allow them up as well. The man either didn’t hear, or chose to ignore her.

John gave a long sigh and turned to go to the front of the building, running down the alley. Maggie stayed where she was, in case Sherlock came back through the window.

“Someone else has been here!” Sherlock called from the flat.

“What?” Maggie yelled back.

She could hear a muffled reply, but nothing coherent. It was silent for awhile, and then the doorbell rang out.

Down the alleyway, John’s voice could be heard from where he stood at the door. “D’you think maybe you could let us in this time?” he asked. After no reply that she could hear, John called out again. “Can you _not_ keep doing this please?”

Something else was called out from inside the flat, but Maggie couldn’t catch it.

“What?” John called.

“Somebody’s been in here before me!” Sherlock’s voice came through the window.

“What are you saying?” John asked. Maggie was quiet, thinking.

“Why would somebody else go in before?” she whispered to herself, pacing a few steps. “And why leave the window open when they left?”

She stopped dead in her tracks as the answer came to her.

“They’re still there,” she said. She turned, trying to find a way she could reach that ladder quickly. There was nothing of use in the alleyway, however; it was empty.

She looked up and stared for a moment at the final rung of the ladder above her. Backing up some feet, she took a deep breath. She was a bit taller than John.

 _I can make it_ , she told herself. _Maybe_.

She set back her right foot and pushed forward, running toward the fire escape’s end. She leaped, just barely caught the railing, and her weight did the rest, pulling the ladder down to the ground for her. She shot up the steps with as much speed as she could muster and rushed for the window as the ladder raised back up behind her.  Pushing through over the sill, she got inside quickly, her shoulder knocking into something as she did. The vase fell from the table near the window and toppled onto the floor, its flower sliding from it’s opening and landing a few inches away on the floor.

Maggie dropped to pick the item up, seeing the water stain on the rug underneath it. Remembering someone else was in here other than Sherlock, she quickly stopped herself from placing the vase back onto the table, opting instead to take it with her. She stepped lightly forward and moved through the doorway nearby to the kitchen, where, across the room, hanging beads in the doorway were shaking, as though someone had rushed through them just moments ago.

“Any time you want to include me,” she heard John yelling from downstairs. She stepped forward, but froze suddenly when she heard something from the other side of the beaded doorway.

There were small thumps and rustling noises, sounds of a struggle. Then, Sherlock’s strained cry could be heard.

“ _John_! _Maggie_!”

Maggie’s grip tightened on the vase in her hand, her heart skipping a beat. She crossed the kitchen in two strides and poked her head around the corner as John yelled from downstairs. All she caught was something about a _massive intellect_ , however. He sounded sarcastic.

As she peeked through the hanging beads, she was horrified at what she saw. A man in all black had a scarf tight around Sherlock’s neck, the detective struggling against him, slowly losing consciousness.

Without pausing to think, Maggie threw herself through the beads and rushed behind the assailant, lifting her arms and smashing the vase on the back of his head. The man reacted quickly, dropping his hands from the scarf and throwing an elbow back, knocking Maggie in the face. She fell backward, clutching her nose in pain. She heard the beads rustle to her right and looked to see the man practically flying through the open window. She ran over, but he was gone when she reached the sill. There, her hand brushed against something. Looking down at the white wood, she saw a small black lotus flower, made from origami paper. She frowned and picked it up as Sherlock began coughing and sputtering from the room behind her. Turning and rushing back to him, she shoved the object into the pocket of her coat.

Sherlock had stumbled to his feet when she arrived back in the room, looking around in slight confusion.

“You,” he said his voice dry and hoarse, looking at her. “Did you see it? Did you see him?”

“I saw him. Hit him with the vase,” she said, pointing to the glass shards on the floor.

The detective looked at them. “Right, right, of course.” The detective coughed, his voice cracking.

“I didn’t catch his face.”

The detective frowned, looking at her. “You're bleeding,” he said.

She looked down at her nose. “Oh.” Touching her fingers to her upper lip, she found that there was indeed blood. Sherlock rushed around her to bring a few napkins from the kitchen, which she gratefully took. "Thank you."

He nodded his mouth in a hard line. He said nothing more, likely trying to wait to speak, so his voice could catch up. Grabbing her by the elbow, he dragged her in the direction of the stairs.

They opened the front door to find John standing there, his back turned. He made an exasperated sigh and turned, opening his mouth to likely make an annoyed point about being left out of the flat again, like at Van Coon's, but stopped short when he saw the woman behind the detective.

" _Maggie_?" he asked. "How the hell did you get in?"

"Jumped for the ladder," she said, her voice a bit stuffy from the napkins pressed against her nose behind Sherlock’s shoulder.

Sherlock took a deep breath. "The, uh," he coughed a bit, "the milk's gone off and the washing's starting to smell. Somebody left here in a hurry three days ago." The man sped through the last words as his air left him and coughed a bit more, trying to regain it.

"Somebody?" John asked, giving Sherlock a slightly annoyed look.

The detective nodded. "Soo Lin Yao," he croaked. "We have to find her."

"But how, exactly?" the other man asked.

Sherlock looked down as he stepped on something. Bending, he picked up a folded envelope,  torn open. On the back of it, someone had written a small note.

_SOO LIN_

_Please ring me. Tell me you're ok._

_Andy_

The detective unfolded the envelope to look at its other side. Something was written in the corner.

_NATIONAL ANTIQUITIES MUSEUM._

"Well, we could start with this," Sherlock croaked,  turning quickly and walking away. John followed with Maggie right behind, shutting the door to Soo Lin’s flat.

"You've gone all croaky," John was saying. "Are you getting a cold?"

Sherlock coughed once but rather hard. "I'm fine!"

John looked back at Maggie.

"Good God!" he exclaimed. "What happened to you?"

She looked up to see Sherlock giving her a look saying not to tell what really happened. She understood. Better not to worry the soldier.

"Foot got caught climbing into the window," she said, checking the napkins. The bleeding had mostly stopped. "Fell right into the floor."

The doctor shook his head. "You're lucky a bleeding nose is all you got. Could've broken your ankle."

She nodded.

"You've got to be more careful," Sherlock said over his shoulder. "You could've been seriously hurt."

The woman swallowed nervously. "I'm sorry."

The detective didn't say anything more,  turning back to look forward as he walked. Maggie threw the napkins in a nearby bin.


	22. Soo Lin, Codes, and Exhaustion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, so I'm back... Sorry for the long wait. (over 6 months, good lord...) Here's chapter 22! I can't guarantee quick updates, but I AM working on this story again. Please don't hate me! I'll try to update again soon-ish. :)

Sherlock led the way to the museum, which Maggie recognised as the same building they had found Raz tagging before John was taken in. After entering the facility and speaking with the front desk, they were denied meeting with Soo Lin.

“But can’t we just speak with her for a moment? We have some questions to ask her. It won’t take her away from her work long,” Maggie said to the woman across the desk.

“There lies your problem,” said a voice behind them. “She doesn’t work here anymore.”

John turned first, noting the young man who seemed to have been passing by and happened upon their conversation. Maggie looked him up and down, and found him to be of average height, with curly light brown hair and a boyish cute face. His outfit and paperwork clutched in his hands suggested that he wasn’t a visitor, but a worker in the museum.

“Can I be of any assistance to you in her absence?” he asked, stepping toward them, looking down slightly as he finished the question.

Sherlock frowned. “I doubt it. Speaking to her would be of most help to us.”

The man’s mouth tugged down on one side in a small, saddened frown, before he looked back up and made a polite smile grace his face. “Then I apologise for bothering you.”

Maggie couldn’t keep herself from stopping him as he started to turn away.

“Wait, please,” she murmured. The man stopped. “Um, did you know Soo Lin?”

The man nodded.

“Could we ask you a few questions?”

The man gulped slightly as he turned his body back to face them. Slowly, he nodded.

 

***

 

Sherlock began pacing around a display of teapots as Maggie watched him interview the museum worker, whose name was apparently Andy.

“When was the last time you saw her?” Sherlock’s voice echoed slightly in the nearly empty area.

Andy’s answer was nearly instant. “Three days ago, here at the museum.”

Maggie noted the quickness of his reply. He had noticed the woman’s absence and marked it. He cared about Soo Lin, whoever she was.

Sherlock looked at the teapots for a moment as Andy continued.

“This morning they told me she’d resigned just like that. Just… left her work unfinished.”

Sherlock’s eyes flicked to some jade figurines, and he then suddenly stood up straight. “What was the last thing she did on her final afternoon?”

Andy thought for a moment before telling them to follow as he led them downstairs, toward the basement, where the artifact archive was held. He flipped on the lights and began walking down the rows, checking the shelving labels as he walked, the lights clicking on one by one down the line of fluorescents on the ceiling.

“She does this demonstration,” Andy began, still looking for the right label, “for the tourists - a tea ceremony.” He stopped, finally finding the correct shelf, which stood partly open. “So she would have packed up her things and put them in here.” He grabbed for the handle on the side of the shelf and began to turn it to widen the slightly open gap so that the trio could examine the area Soo Lin would have last visited. John stepped behind Andy and looked over his shoulder and into the shelf area that was opening. Sherlock glanced in as well, but Maggie, deciding she wouldn’t be able to see over all of them, stood slightly behind. She looked back the way they had walked, checking for anything she or the others might not have noticed. She felt a tug on her sleeve and looked back to see Sherlock directing her attention to something behind her, further into the basement. She turned to look into the shadowy area and suddenly felt the blood in her veins freeze. Sherlock walked closer to the object as Maggie stared in horror and John began to turn, wondering what was happening.

There, further along into the basement archive, sat a large sculpture of a nude woman. This was not what horrified Maggie, however, for she had seen art like this before. What had her blood running cold was that the statue had been vandalized, and the yellow paint lay in a horizontal line over the eyes, with the strange eight below that, over the woman’s torso and chest.

Andy turned as well, noticing the graffiti. “I - I hadn’t seen that before,” he said.

“Luckily,” Maggie murmured. “we have.”

 

***

 

They continued to inspect some of the museum area, but found nothing helpful after the cipher. Leaving, they found darkness upon the city. Sherlock was the first to speak as they descended the museum steps.

“We have to get to Soo Lin Yao,” he murmured, a strong determination in his voice.

“If she’s still alive,” John breathed out, echoing Maggie’s own thoughts.

Suddenly, a voice rang out as footsteps rushed toward them.

“Sherlock!” someone yelled. The group turned and found Raz running for them.

“Oh, look who it is,” John said in an irritated mumble, crossing his arms.

Raz finally reached the, only stopping a moment to catch his breath as he looked to Sherlock and let out a short: “Found something you’ll like,” before turning and trotting off again.

Sherlock began following immediately, with Maggie right on his heels, although John followed a bit more slowly than the others. After a ways, John began talking to Raz, trying to convince him to take John’s place at the court on Tuesday, but Raz was refusing.

As they passed over the Hungerford Bridge, John finally let out a huff. “You can’t honestly expect me to take the fall for this. Tuesday morning, all you’ve gotta do is turn up and say the bag was yours.”

Raz started to argue back once again, but he was cut off by Sherlock, who spoke to the angry doctor. “Forget about your court date,” he let out, getting frustrated by the noise as he tried to focus on the case. Maggie was excited about the development as well. Raz had to have something good.

The graffiti artist finally led them to a skate park, running to lead them underneath the undercroft, where a dew kids were skating and chattering to each other about the tricks they seemed to be pulling off. The cement walls of the skate area were positively covered with graffiti. There were only a few small patches where Maggie caught sight of the pale grey color of the wall underneath the many layers of paint.

Sherlock was examining the area, eyes scanning the many symbols and images spanning the space. “If you want to hide a tree, what do you do?” he mumbled. It sounded almost rhetorical, but Maggie answered anyway.

“Hide it in a forest?”

He nodded slowly, his eyes still focused as he examined each picture for anything possibly important. “People would just walk straight past, not knowing, and -”

“- unable to decipher the message,” Maggie finished with a breath.

Raz suddenly stopped, pointing to a pillar covered heavily with layer upon layer of graffiti. “There. I spotted it earlier.”

Upon further examination, some small lines and curves of yellow paint shown through the layers, forming bits and pieces of Chinese symbols.

Maggie touched a line of paint. “They’ve been here,” she mumbled.

Sherlock looked back to Raz. “That’s the exact same paint?”

Raz didn’t hesitate, nodding. “Yeah.”

Sherlock didn’t even seem to doubt him, turning and gesturing to John and then Maggie, pulling her from her intense stare on the paint. Once he had their attention, he began to speak, a demanding tone in his voice. “If we’re going to decipher this code, we’re gonna need to look for more evidence. Look around, find more of this. It has to be here.”

 

***

 

The group split up and moved through separate areas of the park, searching for more of the distinct yellow paint. Sherlock went for the tracks, John went for the underpass, and Maggie moved through more of the undercroft, dodging some of the skaters that moved around her. She caught sight of the yellow paint in a few places, on some of the pillars and sections of the wall, and while she did snap some pictures of the small glimpses, she doubted they were useful at all. Without even a majority of the individual symbols showing, the pictures were almost useless. They wouldn’t be able to match them to their meanings without most of the image.

She continued to look for more, but with nothing substantial, decided to go find the others, where she might be a bit more useful there.

After calling Sherlock’s phone and failing to reach him - he wasn’t picking up - she tried John’s phone.

“Hello?” came the voice on the other end.

“John, hey, where are you?” Maggie asked.

“I’m by the railway lines, and the maintenance shed. You might come this way.”

“Did you find something?” she asked, hearing the concerned and relieved tone in his voice.

“I did.”

Maggie’s eyes widened a bit. “I’m on my way. Did you get Sherlock to come?”

“I can’t get ahold of him. He won’t pick up his phone.”

Maggie sighed. “Okay. I’ll look for him, then I’ll be there. Stay where you are, and I’ll come to you when I’ve found him.”

She hung up quickly and went off into the rest of the railway area around the skate park and undercroft.

It took her half an hour to find the detective, and when she did, she found John as well.

She heard movement on the other side of a freight car as she shined her torch around the area, trying to find Sherlock in the dark. Moving to the clutch that connected the two freight cars, she stepped up onto the metal and then over the other end, rounding the car. As she did, she found the detective she’d been looking for.

“Sherlock!” she called out, just as someone else did the same. She looked and saw John Watson trotting down the line of freight cars toward Sherlock, just as she was.

“Answer your phone; I’ve been calling you!” the other man said as he reached the detective. “I’ve found it.”

“And you left it?” Maggie asked, incredulous.

The doctor nodded as he caught his breath. “It’s fine - I can find it again.”

Sherlock gave him a single nod and John turned, beginning to jog back the way he had came. The detective hurried after, his coat billowing behind him as he ran. Maggie stood there for a moment, noting how little that limp was effecting John now, and taking a small breath. She didn’t bother saying that _finding_ it wasn’t her concern, but whether or not it would still be there at all.

 

***

 

Maggie caught up with the other two quickly, and the Army doctor led them to a brick wall outside a maintenance shed near the rail lines. As Maggie shined the light of her torch over the dark red, worn bricks, however, her worries were confirmed.

“It’s been painted over!” John let out, looking at the blank wall. Sherlock began looking around the area, the ground around them for clues as to who and how they had done it. Maggie looked around the tops of the buildings and nearby freights, then around in other areas someone might be likely to hide. She saw no one, but that meant little. It was more than likely that they were being watched, and that John had been being watched before.

“I don’t understand,” John was saying. “It-it was here, ten minutes ago. I saw it! A whole load of grafitti!”

“This is why I told you to stay here, John,” Maggie said.

“Sherlock looked up from the ground. “Someone doesn’t want me to see it.”

The detective suddenly turned, dropping his torch and grabbing the sides of his partner’s head with both hands.

“Sherlock!” John and Maggie let out. Maggie knew Sherlock wouldn’t like the loss of a clue, but surely he wouldn’t react violently.

“What are you doing?” John exclaimed, squeezing his eyes shut as Sherlock pressed his skull.

Sherlock shushed him. “I need you to concentrate. Close your eyes,” he ordered.

“What? Why? _What are you doing_?” John let out as Sherlock moved his hands, now gripping his upper arms.

“I need to maximize your visual memory,” Sherlock said, as if that were a good enough explanation for the shorter man. He began to spin the both of them on the spot as Maggie watched with mild amusement. “Try to picture what you saw,” the detective continued, pausing his spin for a moment. “Can you picture it?”

“Yeah.”

“Can you remember it?”

“Definitely!”

“Can you remember the pattern?”

“ _Yes_!”

“How much can you remember?”

“Don’t worry -”

John’s protests were cut off by the detective’s words as he continued to spin them. “Because the average human memory on visual matters is only sixty-two percent accurate.”

“Yeah, well don’t worry,” John said again. “I remember all of it.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow with doubt. “ _Really_?” he asked.

“At least I wood,” John said, pulling sharply away from the other with a small stumble, “if I could get to my pockets!” He began to dig into his jacket pocket. “I took a photograph,” he explained, pulling his phone from his jacket pocket and bringing up the image. Maggie came closer as John held the phone out to Sherlock and saw the flash photo of the wall, yellow symbols covering almost all of its area, and all of them clear in the image. She looked up at John as Sherlock took the phone.

“I’m sorry for doubting you,” she said to him. “This,” she pointed to the phone in the detective’s hand, “was smart.”

John looked over, the hint of a smile on his face. “Yeah, well, I’m not entirely useless, you know.”

She nodded, and John looked back to Sherlock, who looked a bit embarrassed about his actions as he glanced up from the phone. John watched him for a moment, and then sighed as he turned away.

 

***

 

John went for a shower after returning from the train tracks that night, disappearing into the bathroom almost immediately after entering the flat. Sherlock took John’s phone and plugged it into his laptop, rushing to print copies of the picture, even zooming in on some sets of symbols to print the images in more detail. Maggie, after slipping out of her coat and hanging it on the peg near the red Belstaff coat that she still ignored, to Sherlock’s annoyance, stepped into the small bedroom she was renting from Mrs. Hudson to take off her shoes. She then padded her way slowly up the stairs, stumbling once and catching herself on the railing, and joined Sherlock in the living area of his flat.

He had printed what he needed, and was now taping the papers up onto the edges of the mirror that rested on the wall above the fireplace. He barely glanced up over his shoulder as she entered and settled onto the couch on the opposite side of the room, he elbows placed on her knees and her hands clasped in front of her as she looked across, staring intently at the photos.

Sherlock placed the last picture and took a step back to see them all clearly. The both of them stayed in that position, entirely silent, for a few moments, taking in the images, nearly glaring, as if their gaze might force their much needed information to emerge and take shape. After a few moments, Maggie let out a long sigh and placed her head in her hands.

“I guess we should start with translating the Hangzhou to numbers?” she asked, rubbing a hand over her forehead in a stressful gesture.

When she looked up again, Sherlock had turned half way around to look at her, one hand gently touching his chin.

“You’re exhausted,” he said quietly.

Maggie’s mouth fell slightly open, and she immediately began to shake her head. “No, I’m fine, Sherlock.”

Sherlock gave her a doubtful look and stepped forward twice, then gestured toward her. “Dark circles under the eyes,” he began.

She put her forehead onto her palm. “Sherlock, please -”

“Headache at the front of the head, behind the eyes and pressure around the skull, indicating lack of sleep,” he continued, ignoring her. “You stumbled coming up the stairs, and you’ve been swaying where you sit, though I doubt you’ve realised it. This is most likely from light-headedness caused by lack of sleep. Margaret,” he said more quietly, making her look up. He was now sitting on the table directly in front of her. “You can’t even keep your eyes open. You need to sleep.”

She blinked a few times and then held her eyelids open, as if proving her ability to him. “It’s just Maggie, and _no_ , I don’t,” she protested. “I’ll be fine, Sherlock. If you don’t need to sleep then neither do I.”

“Your anxiety makes you more susceptible to fatigue and exhaustion. You need sleep to keep up your mental state.”

She closed her eyes in annoyance, knowing that he was at least somewhat right. “I’ll sleep when the case is over.” She looked up as she said this, watching as the detective tilted his head a bit, seeming to examine her thoroughly. She looked away.

“Why don’t you want to sleep?” he asked.

“Because we’re on a case,” she said. “I want to help.”

He shook his head. “No, it’s more than that.”

Maggie turned her head sharply to face him again. “Sherlock, there is a woman somewhere with a death threat over her head, and I could be helpful in saving her before any more harm could be done by this killer. Sleep is _not_ my priority right now, these symbols,” she continued, venom leaking into her voice as she stood quickly, stepping around the detective and pointing at the photos on the mirror, “this _cipher_ is the key to saving her, and I want to _solve it_!”

She looked back to Sherlock, who still sat where he had, his head turned over his shoulder as his hands grasped his knees in front of him. “And how do you expect to save anyone else when you aren’t taking care of yourself?” he asked. “What use are you, so tired you can barely stand?” He walked over to her, taking her shoulders to stop her sway that she had barely noticed. “How can you help her when you can’t help _yourself_?”

Maggie’s jaw clenched.

“Fine.”

The man raised an eyebrow. “What?”

“Fine, I’ll get some sleep.”

He sighed with what seemed to be relief, although his face remained serious as he looked away from her. “Good.”

She moved away from him, grabbing a small blanket from the corner near the couch, then settling into John’s chair, her feet tucked beneath her.

“What are you doing?” Sherlock asked, his eyebrows scrunched together in confusion.

“I’m sleeping,” she answered. “Right here. So if you need me or if I can help, I’m only a small shake away from being woken up to assist.”

The detective looked at her, his lips pursing with frustration. “Why are you so stubborn?”

“It’s my nature,” she answered, “and I’ve become comfortable enough with you to let it out. Now work.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows in surprise at her words. “Rather bossy, too, I see,” he said under his breath, turning back to the photos. Behind her, Maggie heard the bathroom door open as John exited, and she lay her head to the side, allowing her eyes to slide shut.

 

***

The next morning, Sherlock had translated the symbols into their number equivalents, writing them near their respective Hangzhou numeral in each photograph. He stood in front of the fireplace staring at the images, perplexed, and partly oblivious to the two sleeping forms behind him.

John sat at the dining table, his cheek resting heavily on the fist that held him up from the surface of the table. He swayed slightly with his breathing, eyes shut. Maggie, now laid out on the couch at the back of the room, lay curled into a fetal position beneath the blanket, clutching one of the square pillows that had lain at the end of the couch. She had fallen asleep almost instantaneously after John had returned, and not awoken through the rest of the night. The doctor had been in and out of sleep since, waking up every time Sherlock had begun talking a bit louder as he tried to figure out the cipher. Evidently, it wasn’t working out for him.

“Always in pairs,” Sherlock suddenly said aloud, his eyes catching something in the images before him.

Maggie’s eyes slipped open, Sherlock’s voice waking her this time. Squinting in the sunlight that came in through the curtains on the adjacent wall, John lifted his head slightly, blinking his eyes slowly as he turned to look at his friend.

“Hmm?” the sitting man mumbled. Maggie sat up, rubbing her head as she glanced up at the detective across the room.

“The numbers come with partners,” Sherlock answered, pointing at one of the pictures with symbols that translated to sixty and thirty-five.

John shook his head, electing to ignore the man who had deprived him of much needed rest through the night. He looked around the flat with a blank and empty stare. “God, I need to sleep.” His voice was rough, a rasp in the back of his throat.

“Why did he paint it so near the tracks?” Sherlock asked as though no one had spoken. Maggie blinked her eyes and stood, the blanket wrapped firmly around her shoulders. She absently wondered how exactly she had gotten to the couch in the night, but had a firm idea in her mind.

“No idea,” she heard John whisper quietly.

Sherlock looked back at the both of them, then back to the pictures. “Thousands of people pass by there every day,” he said, as if trying to get them to see his point. Maggie nodded, getting it, but still tired and trying to gain her voice back from her dry throat.

“Just twenty minutes,” John murmured, his voice falling quiet as he dropped his face back onto the hand that had been propping it up before. “Twenty more minutes.”

“They want it back,” Maggie muttered.

Sherlock apparently heard her, perking up suddenly. “Of course!” he let out, smiling wide at the photos and pointing at them. “He wants information! He’s trying to communicate with his people in the underworld. Whatever was stolen, he wants it back.” He ran his fingers slowly over a photo and looked back to Maggie. “It’s somewhere in the code,” he said. She nodded.

John looked up. “What?” he asked sleepily.

Sherlock suddenly began snatching some of the photos from the mirror, then started for the door. “We can’t crack this without Soo Lin Yao,” he called as he reached the top of the stairs. Maggie blinked, realising that this meant they were going out once again, to work. She grinned, throwing the blanket back over the couch and starting for the stairway as she heard John let out a small, sarcastic “Wonderful” behind her, standing.

 

***

 

Sherlock returned them to the National Antiquities Museum and quickly requested to speak with Andy. The man, after arriving, seemed surprised to see the group again, and was even more shocked when they explained to him the situation.  He stopped them partway through the tale and took them back to the display room from their last visit, where there were fewer people than in the lobby area, where they were receiving a few strange stares at the words “murder” and “killer”.  The few patrons that wandered or lingered around the edges of the large display room seemed fine ignoring them while they spoke, standing near the display containing Soo Lin’s pots.

“We have to find Soo Lin,” Maggie insisted.

“I’ve tried,” Andy said in a near pleading voice. Maggie saw it then. Andy didn’t just know Soo Lin, he cared for her.

Sherlock’s voice interrupted her thoughts just as she was about to voice them. The detective had looked up, clasping his hands behind his back. “Two men who travelled back from China were murdered, and their killer left them messages in the Hangzhou numerals,” he explained.

“Soo Lin is in danger,” John cut in before Sherlock began to reiterate the entire case once again. “That cipher,” he said, regarding the symbols on the statue they had found upon their last visit, “it was just the same as the others. He means to kill her as well.”

Andy looked distraught. “Look, I’ve tried everywhere: friends, colleagues. I… I don’t know where she’s gone. She could be a thousand miles away.”

Sherlock looked away from the man in exasperation, glancing to Maggie, who stood near the display case in the center of the room, holding Soo Lin’s artifacts. She was examining the ancient pots within the glass closely. The detective, his eyes fastening to the clay objects as well, immediately understood why her gaze was upon them.

“What are you two looking at?” John asked, noticing their fixation.

Sherlock started toward the case, pointing to it as he did so. “Tell me more about those teapots,” he demanded.

“They were her obsession,” Andy stated with no hesitation. “They need urgent work. If-if they dry out, the clay can start to crumble. Apparently you have to just keep making tea in them,” he murmured in a slightly sad voice. “Maggie could tell from his voice that he was remembering Soo Lin’s own words that she had said to him at some point.

Sherlock bent, making himself eye level with the pots to look more closely at them.

“Yesterday,” he murmured, glancing up to Maggie, “only one of those pots was shining. Now there are two.”

 

***

 

The plan was made rather quickly once they discovered what must have been going on, and where Soo Lin was. Andy met with them late that night at the museum, in the back alley where Raz had painted the pig-nosed police officer,  although it had been scoured away now. He let them in, shutting off the alarm system so that they wouldn’t be disturbed, but he was slightly uncomfortable with this action. Maggie listened as Sherlock then told him he could go.

“What?” Andy had asked. “No,” he protested, “you’ll need me later, to turn the alarm back on before you leave. And,” his voice got quiet, “I want to make sure that she’s safe.”

“She will be,” Sherlock said, then, bluntly, “And the alarm will be turned on again, I assure you. I’ve already memorised your security passcode, so I can turn it back on myself.”

Andy gaped at the detective, his mouth opening and closing a few times as he tried to formulate some other argument, a reason that would allow him to stay. Maggie spoke up.

“She’ll be safe, Andy.” Her voice was so quiet he almost didn’t hear it. He looked over to where she stood, leaning against a pillar, her arms crossed loosely over her torso in her worn coat, looking at her feet. “I promise you,” she continued. “Go get your rest.” Looking up, her eyes stayed away from Andy and moved to Sherlock, who had forced her to sleep even more that day, so she would be okay for the late night ahead of them, instead. “You’ll be useless to her without it.”

Andy had left soon after that, somewhat more comfortable with her assurance.

And thus, they waited.

It didn’t take long. Within an hour she heard the grate move from the wall in the hallway leading to the display room. Pressed into the darkened corner of the room, slightly hidden behind a large wooden display case, Maggie watched closely as the small, young Chinese woman crept into the room slowly, gently taking the dullest pot from the display case before turning to leave again. Maggie moved just a step out of the corner, using the extra room she gained to slip the phone Sherlock had given her from her jacket pocket, and quickly sent a text.

_Heading your way - MA_

She put the phone away immediately after, not expecting a reply. Beginning to move, she crept through the room to reach the doorway Soo Lin had left out of without a sound. Andy had shown them where the restoration room Soo Lin had always used was, and it was the direction she had gone. Where Sherlock waited for her.

Instead of going in the same direction, however, Maggie turned and went the other way, toward the front door, where John waited, in case Soo Lin came that way.


End file.
